


The Approximate Distance Between Two

by fantastic



Series: The Entire Memory of You [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mood Whiplash, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-06-23 01:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 80,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15595299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantastic/pseuds/fantastic
Summary: He had locked it away. He had locked it deep inside of him, buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear, so that it might never be remembered. A quiet, unspoken truth - a balmy summer breeze, a contented sigh. A truth he had once known, but chose to forget.He had been in love with Hank.





	1. Jun 29 2039 - Jul 10 2039

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is a direct sequel to[A Ghost by Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053882), so if you have not read that yet, please do so.**

 

 

**Jun 29th, 2039**

 

It was nearing eleven o’clock in the morning and Lieutenant Hank Anderson was still in bed. There was nothing particularly unusual about that; on days that he did not take his morning run it was common for him to sleep in well past nine. Connor, however, had no designs to let him sleep till noon. It was during the nebulous time before midday that Hank’s appetite became terribly volatile and difficult to please; and as of late Connor had not the patience to play hot and cold with his cravings and the moods that came with or without them. That was not to say Connor did not care about Hank’s good humor - he simply had no desire to be held accountable for his _bad_ humor.

And far be it from his programming to wilfully put Hank in a bad mood; but the last few days in particular had felt especially tense, akin to walking on eggshells, and wilful or not his sour moods seemed an occurrence more frequent now than the past few months combined. Thankfully, Hank had developed a tendency to take his poor temperaments to the privacy of his room, and when not sequestered within, he would treat Connor with an abundance of kindness that was equally bizarre.

For all his social integration programming, Connor was not quite sure what to think of it. The constant flip-flopping was quite jarring. He found himself scanning Hank with greater frequency, which usually yielded nothing useful in terms of his mental state. A sampling of the man’s toothbrush had revealed nothing out of the ordinary; Connor would need a blood sample in order to detect anything serious, but the opportunity for that had not yet presented itself - and even if it did, there was a good chance Hank would not appreciate it.

All things considered, Hank’s reticence and Connor’s nonchalance made it easy to avoid Hank when he was in a disaffected mood. There would be no hope of that now however, as Connor considered his approach while he stood outside the man’s bedroom.

He knocked once, twice, said, “Lieutenant, I’m coming in,” and pushed the door open in the same breath. It was not locked, which was not unusual.

Hank lay on his back in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He did not move as Connor entered, the shift of his gaze from the ceiling to the android the only acknowledgement of his entry.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” said Connor.

“Yeah,” said Hank. He looked back at the ceiling.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“You should eat something. It’s already late.”

Hank scratched his stomach and said nothing. Connor remained very still. He considered his options. Ever since the start of this irrational despondency, indulging Hank and treating him with patience and courtesy seemed to produce the best results. It was never enough to bring him out of his moods, but it never made them worse, either.

“What would you like to eat?” Connor was fairly certain he would develop an appetite once food was in front of him.

Hank snorted. “French toast.”

“Alright,” Connor agreed.

There was no expecting a healthy choice - better to get him out bed with the promise of something sweet. In truth, Connor could not muster the temerity to chide him over his unhealthy choices. It had been pancakes yesterday morning, and donuts the day before that. Dinner had been pizza for the past three nights. A task buried deep within nagged at him to police Hank’s caloric intake, but it was very minor. He dismissed it. He would consider it later.

Hank got out of bed and did not bother changing out of his worn t-shirt and boxers. He brushed past Connor and headed into the bathroom.

“I set out a new toothbrush for you.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s new dental floss as well.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus.”

Connor watched Hank turn to close the bathroom door behind him. He caught a brief glance of Hank’s face, a resigned sort of smirk, a vague expression that Connor’s systems could not quite place.

The sound of the shower being drawn could be heard beyond the door, and Connor made his way to the kitchen.

For something that was not part of even his tertiary functions, he had become remarkably expedient at preparing food. The age of the kitchen appliances were now nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and Hank had allowed him to rearrange the cabinets and drawers to be logically sound.

Cooking was as close to relaxing as Connor figured he could get (it would never be quite like the real thing, the human kind, but that did not concern him). It gave him something to do, something that allowed him to put his processors to work. He recalled offering to do so for the sake of Hank’s health, but now it felt a routine solely for himself. Hank’s enjoyment of his cooking did not bring Connor any enjoyment of his own. He would not be surprised if the man had destroyed his sense of taste after years of binge drinking and fast food.

That did not seem to be the case, however. When Hank arrived in the kitchen and took a bite of the french toast that Connor set in front of him, he was quick to say ‘it’s good,’ even as his mouth was still full.

Connor took a seat across the table. He watched Hank as he ate, but not too closely, as was their routine. Connor did not understand the need for company while eating, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do most of the time.

When Hank finished, Connor rose to collect the dishes, but Hank responded in turn, and stopped him.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it.”

Connor stopped. Hank placed them by the sink and then turned around - obviously not intending to clean them now.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor said, despite the fact. It would be easier if Hank just let him take care of it.

“No problem,” said Hank. He stood in front of Connor and looked at him.

It was difficult to discern his motive. His heart rate was normal and his breathing was steady. Perhaps he was waiting for Connor to say something. Adapting to his unpredictability had never been easy, but Hank had made an absolute trial of it in the last few days. It felt like a test, and Connor did not appreciate failure.

“Would you like to do something together?” Connor asked.

“Like what?”

“We could take a walk. With Sumo.” It was not a suggestion he thought would be favored, but it was his best. Getting Hank out of the house and moving around might improve his mood, which would be better for the both of them.

“Christ, not in this heat. I’ll stick to the air conditioning, thanks. Did you walk him this morning?”

“I did.”

“Thanks. Maybe later tonight, when it cools off?”

Connor nodded. “Alright.”

“They’re showing reruns of a sitcom from when I was a kid. You wanna watch it with me?”

“Yes. I would like to use the last of the drain cleaner and run some diagnostics beforehand, if that’s alright with you.” He would also do the dishes Hank was neglecting, but there was no need to say that. “I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

Hank hesitated. “...Okay, sure. That’s fine.”

“I’ll get started, then.”

There was another pause, and Hank smirked at him slowly; a lazy, lopsided expression that did not reach his eyes.

“No need to look so morose about it,” he said.

“I don’t mean to look morose. How would you like me to look?”

“You could try smiling.”

That was a simple request. Connor looked up at him and could feel the corners of his mouth pull upwards, the left side more so, showing the barest hint of his teeth. Hank raised his eyebrows.

“Jesus. That’s horrifying. Is that really the best you can manage?”

Connor reset his face to neutral. It _was_ a simple request, but he might’ve known that Hank was not so easily pleased. He took a moment to search for an example. He found a stock image of a woman smiling at someone out of frame, the company’s brand plastered across her face, but it was enough.

He allowed his artificial nerves to map the woman’s expression to the best of his ability. His mouth pulled wide, showing his teeth, his cheeks raising, pushing the skin beneath his eyes upwards. The next image of the woman held the same expression but she had lowered her eyes, her head tilting downwards. Connor did the same, looking away from Hank, as if he were embarrassed to meet his gaze. He glanced back to Hank once and again, to be certain he was still watching.

Connor held that expression for exactly five seconds before clearing it.

He looked back to Hank, who was no longer smiling.

“How was that?” Connor asked. The lack of immediate feedback was distressing. He needed to know whether or not he failed.

Hank swallowed, the muscles in his throat visibly tightened. Connor ran a quick scan. His heart rate had spiked considerably. It was very unusual. Hank’s eyes re-focused on Connor, as if he had been staring right through him, his pupils dilated.

“That was good,” Hank said. His voice wavered, and he let out a long breath. He nodded a few times and smiled once more, his lips tight. “Yeah. Thanks, Connor.”

Hank reached out with his right hand and ruffled Connor’s hair. He made sure to do a thorough job of it, Hank’s fingers digging to his scalp, pushing and pulling hard enough that Connor had to relax and allow his head to move with Hank’s hand.

“Lieutenant.”

Hank pulled his hand away. Connor did not need to see himself in order to know his hair was in complete disarray. He reached up to begin setting it to rights.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Hank did not say anything. He waited until Connor finished adjusting his hair before reaching out once more and resting a hand on his shoulder. Despite Connor’s words, he looked truly apologetic. A far away look. Unnecessary, given the triviality of his actions. It made Connor tilt his head as he looked closer at the man, committing that face to memory - every wrinkle, every pore.

“Yeah,” said Hank. “Right. Sorry.”

He squeezed Connor’s shoulder and withdrew. He retreated to the couch and leaned forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the empty television. It seemed he had no intention of turning it on himself, and so Connor did so remotely, setting the channel appropriately. Hank did not seem to notice.

 

    **Jul 3rd, 2039**

 

Even at four in the morning the lighting fixtures outside the McDonald’s were brightly lit. As per usual for the 24/7 locations, of course, but there was a certain garishness to this one in particular. Its design was dated, a decade old, its out-of-the-way location keeping the corporation from updating it to current standards.

The parking lot was empty save for another police car. Chris Miller stood outside the establishment with another woman - one of the workers, judging by her uniform - and greeted them with his usual smile.

“You must be tired,” said Chris, to Hank, because of course Connor was not.

“Same to you,” said Hank. “Someone’s gotta do it, though. What happened?”

Chris jabbed a thumb towards the woman at his side. “Says a worker was abducted in the parking lot when she went out to pick up trash. An android.”

“Right, I figured, since we’re here,” said Hank, a bit sarcastic. Chris nodded sheepishly. They were wasting time.

“When did this happen?” Connor asked.

“About an hour ago,” said the woman. A quick scan brought up her name - Kelsey Page. She had been employed at this location for six years. She was a tall, thin woman, her thick hair pulled into a bun that hung between her shoulders with the weight of it.

“You’ve got any security cameras?” Hank asked.

Kelsey frowned. “Of course we do,” she said. It was a ridiculous question. There was one on the side of the building in plain sight from where they stood.

“Great. You check those Connor, I’ll go have a look around.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Kelsey led him inside and showed him the footage. The camera barely managed to catch anything at all, the abduction happening half in its peripheral, and half in its blind spot. A pair of arms grabbed the android around her chest as she struggled, eventually pulling her out of sight and towards the street. It did not take very long. Only the arms and right leg of the assailant came into sight.

“Do you have a camera on the east side of the building?” Connor asked.

“We do, but its lens is broken. Corporate hasn’t sent us a new one yet.”

Connor frowned, a tic of frustration traveling up his spine. The only cameras nearby that might have captured anything useful were at a used car dealership 500 feet down the road. The rest of the area was nearly derelict - empty lots, overgrown parking lots, an abandoned gas station just around the corner.

“Do you know if the victim was having any troubles? Particularly with any personal relationships?”

“No. I don’t ask my co-workers about their private lives. Especially not androids.”

“Naturally.”

Kelsey pursed her lips. “She’s nice, though. Sam. Never had anything nasty to say about humans after the whole. You know.” She shrugged, and folded her arms. “I doubt anyone had it out for her. Unless it was for being too nice.”

“Did you ever see her outside of work?”

“No. I said she’s nice. Not that we’re friends.”

“What about her relationships with other employees?”

She considered. “About the same. Gets along with everyone but keeps to herself. The two go hand-in-hand, if you ask me.”

He did not ask.

“I see. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Page.”

“Do you think you can find her?”

“I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. Connor had confidence in his abilities, but he was well aware that he wasn’t the only capable person in the city. As unlikely as it was, if the assailant had purposefully managed to avoid the camera, and knew of the broken one, collecting any amount of evidence could become trying at best.

He returned to the parking lot to find Hank waiting by the car. Chris had already left.

“Did you learn anything?” Connor asked.

“Only that this parking lot is as clean as can be despite this shithole area. I guess she really was out here just picking up trash.”

“Did she leave anything behind?”

Hank shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that I could find, no. Miss Kelsey already cleaned up what she dropped, and it was just garbage. How about you? See anything on the cameras?”

“Just the one,” said Connor. “The assailant was mostly out of view. Based on what I was able to see, they were likely male, average height and weight.”

“Shit, that’s not much to go off of.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What a fucking brazen place to do something like that, though. All the bright lights and shit. Aren’t all these places 24/7 now?”

“You would know better than I, Lieutenant.”

Hank laughed, short and happy, from deep within his chest. It was not an unpleasant sound. Connor had quite a few sound clips of Hank’s laughter saved in his memory. They did not seem to serve any purpose. Connor deleted them.

“Fuck you,” said Hank, still smiling. He turned and pulled open the driver’s side door of his car.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the station, obviously. Then home, if I can help it.”

“We’re not done here.”

Hank furrowed his brow. “We’re not? Come on, Connor. Android or not, one-off abductions are a bit below our pay grade.”

He said ‘our’ as if Connor was paid anywhere close to what Hank made. Not that Connor particularly cared. He had no real use for money.

“We don’t know that this is a one-off, Lieutenant. It could be a potential homicide as well.”

“We have no way of knowing that it _is_ one either.”

Connor frowned. He was not frustrated, but he could feel himself approaching it, a razor-thin wire that felt it would snap with a single spike of stress. Early mornings never did much good for Hank’s work ethic. It was a horrid trait for an officer, and Connor wondered if he had always been like this. Perhaps not, given his position.

“Please allow me to look around some more,” said Connor.

“Christ, you’re really serious about this.”

Something in his neck tightened. It felt unneeded. His own stress levels had become more and more difficult to monitor, ever since he changed. Even now, months later, he didn’t like to think about it.

“With all due respect, it’s my job.”

That seemed to do the trick. Hank’s posture relaxed and he sighed. He closed the door to his car but did not lock it.

“Twist my fucking arm, why don’t you,” Hank said in a resigned tone of voice, but his expression was warm. Fond, even. He took a step towards Connor and clapped him on the shoulder, the tips of Hank’s fingers firm against his chassis. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like to take a look around the area, to see if any nearby security cameras might have caught anything. Knowing the exact time the woman was taken, I might be able to flag any suspicious persons or vehicles that were in the area during that time frame.”

Connor slipped out from under Hank’s grip, and went to the other side of the car.

“Let’s look around the block for now,” Connor said. “The car dealership down the road opens in three hours, so we can head there later.”

“Right,” said Hank. He dragged a hand over his face and sighed again. He reopened the car door and climbed inside. “Fuck me. So much for taking it easy.”

Connor pretended not to hear. “Did you say something?”

“Nope.”

 

**Jul 7th, 2039**

 

It felt an odd thing, for an officer of the law to enjoy crime movies. Especially those in which the criminals were the main characters - they were always presented as witty and charismatic and it was clear that the audience was supposed to root for them and empathize with their cause, however shallow. A conflict of interest? Perhaps, perhaps not. Connor supposed it was all well enough. He wondered if Hank might enjoy his job more if real criminals were as well-spoken and jovial as they were in films.

There was no room for beat cops or even detectives in the sort of movie Hank had chosen for the night, however. The criminals depicted were simply _too_ cunning to have that sort of attention on them, their rivals consisting of equally slick felons instead. It was all very fantastical, but Connor decided to treat it as a learning experience all the same.

For Hank, not so much. He laughed and smiled as the movie went on and made little comments here and there. It was just shy of distracting. At least it was doing good for his spirits. A contented Hank was far easier to deal with.

“Apparently this whole scene was basically ad-libbed,” said Hank.

“I see.”

Hank leaned forward and cracked open another can of beer. It would be his sixth one that night. Connor had no desire to ascertain what his blood alcohol level was at, but he figured it was rising quite steadily. At the very least it was still less than his weekly average. So far.

The task that had heckled him over a week ago cropped up again. It seemed such a minor thing, but its return and persistence filled Connor with doubt. He had deleted the task after it had appeared the first time - or he thought he had, yet here it was again, unchanged, untouched. It manifested as a suggestion to action, an urge to reach out and stop Hank, to grab his wrist and stay his hand. To tell him it was time to stop, that he had had enough.

Its tenacity was at odds with its unimportance. Alcohol was unhealthy yes, but Hank was still perfectly lucid, and not a danger to himself or others. A sixth beer would do him no real harm.

Still, a suggestion would not hurt him, either.

“You should probably make that your last one for the night, Lieutenant.”

Hank frowned and turned to look at him. “Sure. Whatever.” He took a long sip from the can. “Surprised it took you this long. The hell do you care, anyway?”

Connor did not have to look at Hank to know he was being scrutinized. The question was a biting one, but it lacked his usual acerbic tone, and sounded more genuine than Hank might’ve intended.

“I think it’s only natural that I concern myself with the health of my partner,” said Connor.

It was tactful, and true, to a certain extent. He did not want Hank to drink himself to death. And Hank was not wrong in that Connor was usually much more prompt in stopping his binges - but those inclinations felt very far away now. The memory of his hand on Hank’s as Connor halted him from pouring more liquor felt invasive, and rude. It was a boundary he should not have crossed.

Connor turned his head, only slightly, in order to meet Hank’s gaze. Hank was still frowning. His heart rate had increased but the color in his face seemed to have drained away, leaving him pale, the blue of his eyes made all the more striking for it. A strange reaction, to such a benign answer.

“Right,” Hank said. He muttered something under his breath, took a short swig of his beer, and turned his attention back to the television.

The two sat in silence for half an hour as the movie went on. Hank still laughed where appropriate but was no longer as chatty as he was before. As the movie approached its climax, Hank stood up and stretched, groaning as he did so.

Connor looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“Gotta piss,” said Hank.

In a completely unnecessary action, Hank reached down and put a hand on Connor’s head, carding his fingers through his hair, tousling it, gently pulling at it as he withdrew. His smile was wide. Connor frowned at him, but Hank was already making his way to the bathroom.

“Do you want me to pause it for you?”

“No, I’ve seen it a hundred times,” Hank called from the bathroom.

Connor set his hair to rights. As unnecessary as it was he could not find fault in Hank’s newly found habit of disheveling his hair. It was easily fixed, and for such a simple action it had remarkable effects. Hank’s stress would lower, the tension in his shoulders would dissipate, he would smile more.

It was a mysterious thing. There was no evidence that Hank had grown more fond of him recently (just the opposite, really), but he had become far more physical with Connor as of late. Touching his shoulder, ruffling his hair, hugging him. Hank’s actions seemed to serve no purpose outside of displays of platonic affection, but Connor wondered what he had done to deserve such treatment.

Perhaps he had done nothing at all. Perhaps Hank was just lonely.

The thought of that brought Connor to a standstill, if only for a second. He felt his entire body pause. His thirium pump skipped a beat, and he frowned. Connor was by no means perfect, but he was a constant companion, was he not? Hank had no cause to be lonely. It was to assuage Hank’s solitude in the first place that he--

His thought was interrupted by a muffled shout and a string of expletives. Connor whipped his head around.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

“Fuck! Yeah. I’m-- Just stubbed my fucking toe on this piece of shit door… I’m fine. Shit! God dammit, that fucking hurts!”

 

    **Jul 10th, 2039**

 

Hank had asked for coffee, which was a decidedly simple request, but Connor found himself distracted. It was an odd hour, leaving the break room in the station devoid of people, but the television remained on. The volume was kept quiet, however, and so Connor adjusted it remotely.

There was an announcement on the news, a press conference from the White House. Some of the restrictions placed on CyberLife since Markus’ revolution had finally been lifted. They were mostly minor things - the ability to resume production of certain parts and biocomponents, the annulment of android identification laws, as well as the permission to activate any androids that remained in stasis. The halt order on full android production was still in effect, and would likely remain as such so long as the Android Rights Bill was mired in senatorial debate.

Connor watched with interest. No doubt Markus was relieved. It was a step forward, however slight.

“The hell are you doing?”

Connor looked over his shoulder. Gavin Reed entered the break room, one hand adjusting the waist of his jeans, likely having come from the bathroom. His perpetual scowl was not as overt as it normally was.

“I was watching the news,” Connor explained.

“Can’t you just stream that shit in your head?”

“It’s much easier this way. And safer.”

“So you’re just slacking off, then.”

“Lieutenant Anderson asked me to fetch him a cup of coffee.”

“Just going to leave him hanging, huh?” Gavin snorted. “Fucking dick move. Can’t say I disapprove though.”

Gavin’s approval was inconsequential to Connor, but he nodded all the same. “I’m sure he doesn’t mind the wait. Even then, he’d understand. This is very interesting.”

Gavin scowled at him, his lower lip jutting out, brows furrowing. He said nothing, and turned his attention to the television, for which Connor was grateful. Dealing with Hank had been rough as of late, but nothing could quite compare to Gavin Reed’s incessant irritation. The shorter human had not struck Connor as one to watch - let alone care about - this sort of news, but here he was, narrowing his eyes as he listened to the caster recount what was announced in the earlier press conference.

“Great,” he said, as the news changed topic. “Even more of you plastic assholes walking around. Just what I fucking needed.”

Connor turned to face Gavin in full. At that point it would have been easy to walk away, to leave Gavin standing and not risk any further confrontation. At least, not at that point in time. Gavin would certainly not appreciate it - for as much as he complained about Connor’s presence, he reacted to poorly to being ignored by him as well. Constantly being at the mercy of the man’s terrible moods went against the very grain of Connor’s programming, even as a deviant. _Attempting_ to cooperate with Gavin could do no real harm.

“There should only be a couple thousand at most in Detroit. Most of them will be in CyberLife warehouses across the country.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” said Connor. “I was only stating the obvious.”

“The obvious,” repeated Gavin. “God damn, you’re such a fucking smartass. How the fuck does Hank put up with you?” Flecks of spit flew out of his mouth.

“He’s a fairly patient man. It helps that he doesn’t complain about androids as much as he used to.”

“Fairly patient? He’s a cunt. And if he were smart he’d complain a lot more. Even if he’s piss drunk most of the time it must be a real pain in the ass living with someone like you.”

Connor felt the corner of his lip twitch. Being called ‘someone’ by Gavin was quite the accomplishment, even if the detective hadn’t realized it himself.

“I don’t think he has any major complaints. You could always ask him yourself.”

Gavin scoffed. “Fuck that. Not that I ever enjoy talking to him, but he’s been a prickly son of a bitch lately. Been in a real snit.”

“I haven’t noticed.”

It was partly true - Hank had never been particularly chummy at work, but at home he was either moody or friendly, and rarely anything else. The serious arguments they had weeks ago had long since passed, and not recurred.

“Bullshit you haven’t. Weren't you two at each other’s throats in the station the other week?”

“That was 40 days ago, Detective Reed.”

Gavin frowned. More than usual, of course.

“Fuck off. It’s not my job to keep track of your marriage to that fat fuck.”

Gavin’s cheeks tinged pink, and he looked away. A memory resurfaced in Connor’s mind, one concerning Gavin’s browsing history. How could he forget? Not that there was anything wrong with enjoying android erotica, but it was peculiar given the detective’s open dislike of androids. Maybe the two went hand-in-hand. It made Connor curious, as if he had just learned of it for the first time. He remembered Hank’s disbelief and amazement at the discovery, but his own reaction to it felt muddled. Far away.

“That’s true,” said Connor, ever diplomatic. He ignored Gavin’s obvious gibe, as Hank had once instructed him to.

“Christ, you’re boring,” said Gavin. He rolled his eyes and sneered, but the aggression behind it was impotent.

Connor smiled at him. Barely. The quirking of the corners of his mouth, the slight inclination of his head.

“You’re being singularly congenial today, Detective Reed,” said Connor.

His forehead creased. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re being very mellow, compared to your usual.”

Gavin went red in the face. He closed the distance between them and jabbed a finger into Connor’s chest. “What the fuck? You calling me stupid? I can speak English, asshole! Fuck you! I meant, what do you _mean_ mean?”

Connor allowed himself to be jabbed. “Exactly what it sounded like I meant, I suppose. Usually you just ignore me - after you finish insulting me, that is.”

“Yeah. Well,” said Gavin. It was a non-response. His voice dropped to a near mumble and his hand fell to his side. “You’re the one that’s acting fucking strange. Like you’ve been walking around in some fucked up robot daze. What’s up with you?”

“Nothing is ‘up with me.’”

Connor said it with certainty. He had no reason to be anything else; but the estrangement he felt from his memories concerning Gavin settled in his mind and refused to budge, his processors running over the fact again and again. It was not as if anything had happened. There had been no errors, no issues. That he felt so disaffected from them made little sense.

“Sure there’s fucking not,” said Gavin. “You’ve always been a prick, but now--”

“Reed!”

A familiar shout cut through the station. The two looked up from the break room towards Fowler’s office, where the captain leaned on the opened glass door. Jeffrey scanned the station floor, then looked to the break room, where he locked eyes with the man in question. Jeffrey pointed at Gavin for good measure.

“Reed, in my office! Now!”

Gavin sighed and ran a hand over his face, pulling hard at his cheeks with his fingers, revealing the capillaries at the base of his eyeballs.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, and off he went.

Connor went to prepare Hank’s coffee (with a single packet of sugar, just how he liked it) and returned to his desk.

Hank frowned but thanked him anyway. The coffee was fresh so he had no reason to complain in earnest.

“The hell took you so long?”

“I was ambushed by Detective Reed.”

“Jesus.”

They both looked to Jeffrey’s office. The glass walls allowed them to watch what looked like a heated argument between the two. Gavin leaned in close to say something and Jeffrey recoiled. Jeffrey wiped his face with his sleeve - having likely been spat on by accident - before standing to his full height and laying into Gavin. His words were unintelligible but the boom of his voice carried into the station.

Hank sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned back to his terminal. Connor returned to his desk.

He completed his work at a slower pace than he normally did. The unusual disconnect he had felt when recalling his memories with Gavin had not left his mind. No matter how he tried to force it down it would always return, a frenetic scrambling of code that made him wary and curious all at once.

Connor set his work aside and dipped into his storage, a vast array of memories that could be recalled with perfect clarity.

He rewound his memories until he reached the 24th of June. There was a six-hour gap in his memory. He had arrived at CyberLife Tower, and there was Simon, who reached out his hand-- and then nothing, until his unconscious awareness of the flow of time began again, as maintenance proceeded. Missing time was not inherently unusual as far as maintenance went, but the starting point of it was, the cutoff before Simon said so much as a word.

He rewound further, to the morning of the 24th.

Hank had been acting strange. Connor remembered the days before that, how they would barely speak to one another before noon. That he had something to tell Connor, the openness of his words contrasting with his defensive posture, the way he did not shrink away as Connor stood close (that had been unnecessary, on his part) - it was all very bizarre.

Hank had never told him what he had intended to. At least, Connor was fairly sure he hadn't. When he returned on the morning of the 25th, Hank had retreated to his room and remained there for 27 hours. What was it he had to say? It might’ve been important. Connor reconsidered the six-hour gap in his memory. The image of Simon’s face before there was nothing. Perhaps Hank knew something he did not.

Connor turned in his chair to face the detective, who seemed to be engrossed in something on his phone.

“Lieutenant.”

“What.”

Hank did not look up. Connor continued.

“On the morning of the 24th of June, you were going to tell me something. What was it?”

“I don’t remember dates like you do, Connor.”

“It was just before I had to leave for maintenance. Does that help?”

Hank went still. Even a passive scan could tell how his heart rate spiked in an instant, heart hammering against his rib cage, sweat lining his forehead from the force of it. Hank swallowed before he responded, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his beard, his words rushed.

“Oh, uh. There was a leak in the fridge. Towards the back. I fixed it, though.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, before you got back.”

“Oh.”

Hank turned away in his seat, busying himself further in whatever was on his phone. It seemed unlikely, but Connor had no real reason to doubt him. The refrigerator was fairly old, after all.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank did not respond, and the two worked in silence for the rest of the day.

 

-

 

When they arrived home that evening, Hank went straight to the kitchen. He withdrew an unopened bottle of whiskey hidden in the back of a cabinet, which Connor knew of, but had yet to do anything about. The inclination to dispose of Hank’s stash of alcohol had dissipated weeks ago, but the memory of it was still there. An inclination with no motive, no reasoning, no logic.

Hank retreated to his bedroom with the bottle and a glass. He said nothing to Connor, leaving him to his own devices.

Connor took Sumo for a long walk, fed him, then tidied the living room. It was nearing eight o’clock when Connor went to Hank’s room, the door closed shut. He knocked once, twice, then put his hand on the doorknob. He turned it as gently as he could, to test if it was locked or not, and it was. The lock mechanism was very old. It would be easy to force it open.

“Lieutenant,” Connor called. This was just as well. The walls of the house were quite thin. “What would you like for dinner?”

Hank did not respond for another minute, but Connor could hear movement on the other side of the door.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should still try--”

“Just fucking leave me be, Connor.”

There was already a slur to his words.

Connor returned his hands to his sides and said nothing further. He could recognize futility when it was standing right before him.

How had they arrived at this point?

It was not as if their relationship had always been perfect. He could still recount with flawless accuracy the memory of Hank’s anger after Connor spilled his drink when they first met, the scowl on Hank’s face as he pointed his revolver at Connor, snow melting on his hair. And after being so graciously allowed to live in his home, Connor was no stranger to Hank’s mood swings, his volatile indignation.

Connor closed his eyes, remaining where he stood, silent and rigid before Hank’s closed door.

How had they arrived at this point?

He recalled their last argument, on the night of the 13th of June.

He watched as Hank forced him back to the couch, his face red with anger. He watched as Hank turned away and retrieved his alcohol. He watched as he followed Hank into the hall, where he was left standing. He watched the empty hall for several hours more.

Connor reviewed it, then again, and once more. It was all of it, distorted. No matter what he did to rectify the data, it played back the same each time. It was entirely corrupt.

He felt shunted from his own memory, as if he were looking at it through the eyes of another android, as if he had been cut off irrevocably from everything but the visual data. There were no records of his thoughts, his processes, his discarded responses, his stress levels.

The sound was impaired as well. Connor stopped at the threshold to answer Hank’s curiosity, but as he spoke the sound-waves became longer, and longer still, until it sounded as if the both of them were speaking underwater. No distinction could be made of it, even with all of his diagnostics and self-repair; it was beyond his reach. Only the din and tone of their obscured voices left evidence that they had argued, that their words had been heated.

After Hank left him standing in the hallway, he had remained there for three hours and 27 minutes. Connor did not know why. He could not tell. It was as if he were watching himself from outside his body.

Connor reached for the memory again. To turn it over once more in his mind, to find out why. Yet as he did so a wave of fear washed over him, ran slick in his veins and clogged his thirium pump with a glacier of dread. His LED circled to red and his body froze. Connor’s own curiosity turned against him and it repulsed him, an instinctual reaction - as if he were standing at the edge of a cliff, wind buffeting his body as he looked down, churning waves beneath him.

Connor turned away from the memory. From his questioning. It drifted from the forefront of his mind, and as it faded away, so too did his fear, his dread, taking the cold in his veins along with it. All that remained was the view of it from a distance, a far-off view. A silent ghost of a memory, filled with dread, encased in ice. A red memory.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who made it this far. The support and kind words of encouragement thus far have meant the world to me. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Jul 11 2039 - Jul 25 2039

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some evocative language regarding dubious consent memory probing. Please be advised.

 

**Jul 11th, 2039**

 

There was little doubt that Hank would awake with a hangover, considering his drinking binge the night before. Connor had not been privy to the exact amount of whiskey he had consumed, but he knew the man’s habits well enough, as well as his limits. A work day looming before Hank was never enough to keep him from indulging.

It was with this in mind that Connor rose early to prepare a remedy for him. Hank’s hangovers had become more and more infrequent, and a reason to keep the ingredients for said remedy stocked ebbed away with them. If Connor were anything less than himself, he might’ve been lacking what he needed; but he would not allow himself to be caught unawares, or unprepared. He would not fail in his duty.

His duty? No, his mission. What was his mission?

He didn’t have one, not anymore. Not for a long time, now.

No matter. For now, his priority was to maintain Hank’s spirits, to keep him from a downward spiral, and from affecting their job in a negative manner.

Connor went to the garage to fetch the alcohol he kept hidden there. The Mezcal Bloody Mary was his chosen remedy, perfected by Connor over the course of several months. Or, just ‘a mezcal,’ as Hank called it. He resented the idea of drinking (or even worse, _needing_ ) Bloody Marys - something about drinks for the frail and friends of his ex-wife.

As he added the finishing touches, Hank’s hurried footsteps tore from his bedroom and across the hall, followed by the distinct noise of him retching into the toilet. Closing the door became an afterthought when he was in such a state. Sumo meandered into the hall in order to check on him.

Eventually, Hank wandered into the kitchen and Connor handed him his drink. He looked absolutely miserable. Sweat covered his neck in a slick sheen, his eyes were red with heavy bags beneath, the color in the rest of his face gone, leaving his complexion ashen. His crow’s feet were all the more pronounced.

“Thanks, Connor,” he muttered. He winced as he took a long swig of it. “Oh fuck, that’s disgusting.”

“Make sure you drink all of it.”

Hank nodded and went back to it. It felt a little awkward, standing in the middle of the kitchen. There was a certain nostalgia to it, familiar and distant, but not at all soothing, like a memory of a warning. He could not identify it.

“I’ll make eggs for breakfast, if that’s alright,” said Connor.

Hank drank through half of his mezcal. He lowered the glass from his mouth, cleared his throat, and blinked rapidly.

“Sounds good,” he said. He leaned to his right and placed the half-empty glass on the kitchen table.

As Connor began to turn away, he felt Hank’s hand on his shoulder, stopping him. In one quick motion Hank pulled him close, clumsy and awkward, his chin and mouth burying into Connor’s right shoulder. Connor did not tense, or struggle. He allowed himself to be pulled into Hank’s arms, pliant and passive.

The tips of Hank’s fingers dug into him, warm and firm, then relaxed to stroke apologetic circles over skin where no bruises would form. His heart beat rapidly, the constant strum of his pulse reverberating against Connor’s frame. The suddenness of his embrace and the weight of his body left them at a lean. Connor locked his knees to keep them both upright.

His chin pressed against Hank’s shoulder and Connor could feel his perspiration where their skin met. The smell of him was all at once overwhelming - his natural musk, the pervasive scent of liquor, bile washed out with tap water, a faint reminder of detergent in his shirt.

It was not entirely unpleasant.

If it would lighten his spirits, Connor would remain for as long as it took.

Placating Hank would make things easier for the both of them.

The thrumming of Hank’s heart quickened as they stood in silence. His intention was unclear at first, yet Hank’s despondency from last evening was well remembered; it was a vacillating attempt at comfort - for himself, no doubt - but Connor could not begrudge him his humanity.  Connor raised his arms, achingly slow, his fingers ghosting over the expanse of Hank’s back, the flat of his palms trailing downwards as if slotting into place. Yet the moment Connor went still, the moment his acceptance of Hank’s self-found comfort was complete, the human tightened his grip, squeezing him for only an instant, for the barest of moments, before releasing him with the same suddenness that brought them there.

Hank straightened up and Connor dropped his hands to his sides. Hank’s sweat clung to patches of his synthetic skin. He studied Hank the best he could - the lines of his face, the way the brightness of his eyes contrasted with the pallor of his skin. There was that remorseful expression, once more.

“Sorry,” said Hank. He could not, or would not, look Connor in the eye.

“You don’t need to apologize,” said Connor. He had said it with growing frequency in the past weeks, and it was as true now as it was the first time. Wasn’t it?

Hank opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, and remained silent.

“...I’ll get started on breakfast,” said Connor, after a long pause. “You should shower and get dressed.” They would be late for work, at this rate. Not that it mattered much to Hank.

Still Hank was unable to meet Connor’s gaze. He nodded absently, and turned back towards the hall.

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

There was a tug at the center of Connor’s chest. The wires running deep within his legs were set aflame, a prickling that ebbed and flowed with his pulse. His body urged him forward. To follow Hank into the hall. Yet there was no reason to do so, he had no cause, no motive. It was a purely physical reaction, one his mind could not comprehend, even with all of its power.

The memories he reviewed the evening before flooded into his mind. The vision of Hank retreating into his room, bottle in hand. The empty hallway. Simon’s sad eyes before a chasm of nothingness. A whorl of stress and fear, the same as he felt the night before, rushed into his veins. It grew the longer he looked, the longer he thought on it, until it became too much. His natural curiosity was overpowered by the intensity of it, and so Connor shoved it away, buried those memories deep within him.

The urge to follow Hank into the hall receded as he did so. There would be no purpose in it. There was nothing for him there.

 

    **Jul 14th, 2039**

 

It was 101 degrees fahrenheit outside by one o’clock in the afternoon.

The heatwave was projected to last a mere five days, but five days in oppressive heat and humidity might as well be an eternity for humans. Air conditioning was a savior in such events - but as luck would have it, the ancient unit outside Hank’s home chose the hottest of days to finally give up the ghost.

“I’m gonna fucking die.”

Hank laid sprawled out on the couch. The fabric of his shirt clung to his chest, a dark line of sweat running down the center of it. He had taken two old fans out of storage, putting one on him, the other on Sumo. One was missing several of its blades and did very little. The ceiling fan was on as well and made a constant jangling sound.

“You are not going to die.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, Mister ‘I’m Not Experiencing This Weather.’”

“Talking will only make you more uncomfortable, you know.”

“Can’t get much worse, then.”

Hank chuckled. Connor looked at him over his shoulder. He had little to do and Hank had grown agitated with his pacing, so he set himself to alphabetizing Hank’s books, by author, then title. Hank reached for a hand towel he kept draped over the back of the couch and wiped down his face and neck.

“You could try distracting yourself by watching TV,” said Connor.

“It’s too hot for TV.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Connor frowned and left it at that. He was quite sure he _would_ understand, even taking into account all of Hank’s irrationalities.

“It’s… the TV generates heat,” said Hank, after a long pause. He tossed the hand towel back to its resting spot with too much force, and it flopped to the floor behind the couch. Connor leaned down to pick it up. It was damp. He folded it and placed it back on the couch.

“So do the fans, and so does the refrigerator. Shall I turn those off for you?”

“Christ, you’re a real prick. Try and have some sympathy for my condition, asshole.”

“I do have sympathy for you, Lieutenant.”

And that was true, to an extent. Connor did not have to devote any extra processing power in order to tell how uncomfortable Hank was. He did not envy the man, but Hank’s complaints had little effect on him. Connor looked to the TV and turned it on.

Hank grunted. “Sure as shit don’t sound like it.” Still, he sat upright and reached for the remote.

“It will help distract you, I’m certain of it.”

“We’ll see,” he said.

Connor watched Hank as he stood by the bookcase. A bead of sweat trickled down from the base of Hank’s skull and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. The rubber band Hank had used to tie up his hair in order to keep his neck cool looked tight and uncomfortable. Connor extended and flexed his fingers. Something inside him churned, as if two wires had crossed and tangled, but there was nothing wrong with him - no error reports, no warnings, nothing.

“...We could always go to the station and get some extra work done,” Connor offered. “It’s air-conditioned.”

Hank snorted. “Yeah, right. Did you really think that was gonna work?”

“No. It was worth a try.”

“Hell, if you want to go in yourself, I won’t stop you.”

Connor _had_ considered it, but there wasn’t anything pressing he wanted to get done. At most he could pick up the slack he left for Hank. No matter how much work Connor took on in his stead, Hank always seemed to fall behind.

“That’s alright,” said Connor. “It was more a suggestion for your sake.”

“I think even _you’d_ melt if you got into the car right now. Just saying.”

The left corner of his mouth twitched. Connor distracted himself by placing the remaining books on the shelf. He held onto the last one, pressing the pad of his forefinger into the corner of the hard cover. He had begun reading through Hank’s collection some months ago. It was a different experience, to move through a text word by word, instead of absorbing the entirety of it in a matter of seconds. The want to continue doing so had since left him.

“Not quite melt,” said Connor. “But you might be able to fry an egg on my back.”

Hank laughed. Connor watched a line of sweat travel down the man’s temple as he turned in his seat to look at him.

“Shit, really?”

“No, of course not.”

Hank clicked his tongue, looking disappointed. It came as a mild surprise, and Connor once more felt the corner of his mouth jerking upwards, his cheek glitching with the suddenness of it. He forced his face back into a neutral position.

It really was a ridiculous thought. Not even the oldest android models were so poorly designed. Being burned by one’s android on a hot day, just from a simple touch - the very idea flew in the face of reason.

Hank did not seem to consider this however, and simply said, “Oh well.”

“Is that something you would have liked to try?”

“Maybe. I might’ve found it funny a few years ago. The egg would probably taste like shit, though.”

“I’d be sorry to disappoint,” said Connor in a dry tone of voice. He shelved the book he had been hanging onto, and took a step back to admire his handiwork.

Hank sighed and turned around. He reached for the towel again and wiped the back of his neck and his face.

“God damn, talking to you really is taking it out of me.”

“I did warn you.”

“You could just give me the silent treatment, asshole,” said Hank, but his tone was uncommitted. Teasing, almost. “I’m sweating my balls off.”

“You should drink more water.”

“I’m tired of having to piss every 30 minutes.”

“It’s important to stay hydrated.”

“How about a beer instead?”

“Beer will only dehydrate you, but I’ll bring you one if you promise to go 24 hours without complaining.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I’ll get you more water, then.”

Hank did not protest, and so Connor went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water with plenty of ice. He set it down on the coffee table in front of Hank, who muttered his thanks. The condensation that was already forming on the glass and the sweat on Hank’s palms was a bad combination, so the man had to lean forward and grip it carefully with both hands. He took a long sip and when he was done he raised the glass and pressed the base of it against his forehead. He closed his eyes, and sighed.

“Yeah, I’m seriously gonna fucking die.”

An idea came to Connor. It was born from nothing other than the sight of Hank pressing the glass to his skin, his processors cross-referencing the sight with an article he had read months ago. It seemed very silly, and very sudden, but his body carried him back to the kitchen all the same, as if possessed by some unseen force. A force that urged him on, to do something he might have usually brushed aside.

He retrieved an ice pack from the freezer that Hank used for his aches and pains. It was terribly old but still did the job well enough. Connor returned once again to his position behind the couch.

“Hold still, please,” he said. Tentative, he reached out with one hand to touch Hank’s shoulder. He could feel the muscles beneath his fingers tense, but Hank remained still. How easy that was. How strange.

Connor pressed the ice pack against the back of his neck, adjusting it so each end was just barely touching the pulse on either side of his neck. Hank hissed at the suddenness of it but did not pull away or complain.

After a minute, he finally relaxed.

“Oh shit, that feels fucking amazing,” Hank said. His voice was rough and low, and he sighed as he relaxed backwards into the ice pack. “Think I’m getting a brain freeze though.”

“It’ll pass,” said Connor.

They fell into silence for another few minutes and there was nothing comfortable about it. Hank had relaxed and closed his eyes which was all well and good, but there was something else at play that Connor could not quite place. His reaction had been near automatic, despite having never done this before, and Hank seemed to accept it without any of his usual gawkiness.

There was something fragile to the atmosphere, gentle and awkward, something that could be broken at any moment. For all his social programming, all Connor could do was sense it. He did not know what to do with it. He could reach out and touch it, perhaps, if he wanted to, but he didn’t. There did not seem to be any harm in it.

“So, uh,” said Hank. His fingers played with the hem of his shorts. “What time was the replacement unit coming tomorrow?”

“One,” said Connor.

“That late? Jesus.”

“That’s just the way things are now. Better get used to it.”

“...Right.”

Hank paused as he refocused his attention on the television. A courtroom drama played, a new episode with a guest appearance from an up-and-coming deviant actress - one of the first. She gave an emotional testimony on the witness stand, tears streaming down her face.

Hank made a noise in the back of his throat. “Can all androids do that?”

“Do what?”

“Cry.”

“Yes, in theory.”

“Huh. Weird. Seems like something that would have been an afterthought.”

“The fluid acts as a lubricant and cleaning agent for our optical units. Forcefully expelling it results in the appearance of tears. It’s the same solution that’s used to maintain our mouths.”

“You cry your own spit?”

“That’s a rather crass way of putting it, but yes.”

“Jesus.”

“I figured you would have learned at least that much by now.”

Hank shifted in his seat and Connor adjusted the ice pack to move with him.

“Can’t I just leave that shit to you? You know I’ll never be as good as you.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Hank. His tone was sarcastic but Connor could hear the smile in his voice, could feel the way his chin pulled to his chest when he was happy.

Silence settled in once more. Hank relaxed, his attention remaining on the television. The cold of the ice pack began to dissipate. Connor pulled it away, watching the mixture of sweat and condensation trickle down Hank’s neck and soak into his threadbare shirt.

“Thanks, Connor. Sorry for being such a pain in the ass.”

Connor opened his mouth to respond. A simple ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘it’s no trouble’ would suffice, but another option jumped to the forefront, speeding through his veins like liquid lightning. It wet his tongue and graced his lips and Connor had to clamp his mouth shut to keep himself from saying it.

I l͟ik̸e t̡a̴king ca̵r̛e͟ of͝ ͜yo͝u.͞

There was a nostalgia to the phrase, and he could recognize it as something he had said before; but it was different now, packaged with more than just the words. No longer was it cut and dry, a basic memory of words spoken in earnest. There was a warmth to them - a balmy summer breeze, a contented sigh.

Unexpected. Unusual. Unwanted.

Connor purged the response from his memory, and the process that brought it to his lips. He checked once, twice, to make sure it was gone for good. He remained silent.

 

    **Jul 17th, 2039**

 

There was only one working light in the entirety of the alleyway. It clung crooked to the back of an apartment building and flickered every 11 seconds. The lights from the ambulance and police car helped illuminate the area and tenants of the building and those nearby watched from their windows despite the late hour.

Molly Caldwell sat on the back of the ambulance, dried blood from a minor head wound coating the right side of her face. She was in hysterics, despite Hank’s attempts to calm her, and so Connor stood on the sidelines as Hank questioned her to the best of his ability.

“Did you see where they took him?”

She shook her head and choked on a sob. “No, one of them just-- just grabbed him and held him down and then-- that’s when the other one hit me.”

Hank ran a hand over his beard and sighed. “You didn’t happen to see what they looked like?”

“Uh.” She took in a shuddering breath. “They were about the same height as Miles, but their faces… They were wearing those, those kinds of masks with the eye holes--”

“Ski masks.”

“I think so? They came up from behind us, so-- we couldn’t-- I--”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Hank reached out and rest a hand on her shoulder as she cried. Connor watched him closely. It was better that Hank was speaking to her.

A sneaking suspicion sparked up Connor’s spine. It was similar to last time, but there was room enough for coincidence. Anyone who wanted to abduct an android without risk of being caught - especially now, when they were protected by stronger laws - would have done the same: late night, unpopulated area, one at a time. Yet the (potentially incidental) intelligence of the first was offset by the stupidity of the second - leaving a witness was never a good idea, even if she hadn’t seen anything useful.

Molly let out a loud wail and wiped at her eyes with heavily manicured fingers.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find him?”

Hank pat her shoulder and then stroked the crown of her head. It was awfully familiar for a police officer and Connor felt his lips tighten. Molly did not seem to mind it, however, and so he said nothing.

“We’re gonna try. I can promise you that.”

“Please, please. You have to bring him back, he’s-- he’s all I have.”

Hank smiled at her. Connor did not have to scan him to see the empathy in his eyes. Connor slipped his right hand into his pocket and squeezed the quarter within, hard, between his thumb and forefinger. He turned and walked a few paces up the alley to wait for Hank.

He did not have to wait long. Hank approached him with a troubled look on his face, his head bowed.

“Fuck,” was all he had to say for his opening salvo.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” Connor asked. He already had a good feeling as to what the man was thinking, so the question was a superfluous one, and Connor did not particularly care to hear his answer one way or another.

“Yeah, I’m just… pissed, I guess.”

Yes, of course. That much was obvious. He had shown an irrational amount of concern for the Tracis from Eden Club and an equally unnecessary amount of interest in their love for one another. With that in mind, Connor supposed his reaction was a given - naturally he would be affected by the tears of a woman over her abducted android lover.

Hank was soft at heart. He had always been weak to that sort of thing, despite the great lengths he went to to hide it. There was something about it that set Connor on edge. Was it irritation? Was it scorn? He couldn’t tell, and the obscurity of his own emotions made it all the worse. The stress of it built within him. A jolt in the backs of his legs. An abnormality in his pump regulator.

When Connor did not respond immediately, Hank let out a long sigh and moved on.

“So. You able to figure anything out with that fancy head of yours?”

Connor shifted his attention to the sparse crime scene. It was a welcome distraction, and he was thankful for Hank changing the subject, though he did not give it voice.

“Not as much as I’d like,” said Connor. “After incapacitating Ms. Caldwell, the assailants headed north, back in the direction they came.”

He walked up the alley and Hank followed alongside him. There was a spattering of blue blood on the pavement, still fresh, still visible to Hank. A trail of it led towards the north end of the alley, where it stopped abruptly.

“The thirium matches that of the reported CX100 model-- Miles. They struck him at some point, but since it stops so suddenly, they must have done something to stem the bleeding. Either that, or there was a vehicle nearby that they loaded him onto.”

“You’d think they would have heard a car driving up behind them,” said Hank. “And Molly didn’t mention seeing one when she turned around. Doubt they would have stuck around, either.”

“That’s true,” said Connor. He noted the familiar use of the witness’ first name. There was that jolt in the backs of his legs again, traveling all the way to his heels.

“So they were kind enough to patch him up then and there. Covering their tracks?”

“That is the logical conclusion.”

“No way they hoofed it for too long with an android in tow.”

“It’s unlikely. Chris and Robert will be canvassing local establishments tomorrow for security cameras that might have captured anything. But…”

Connor frowned. He felt a tug in his shoulder, and he realized that he had been gripping the quarter in his pocket this entire time.

“But…?”

Hank folded his arms. Connor did not have to look him in the eye to be aware of his focus.

“I think it’s unlikely that they’ll find anything,” said Connor.

“The same way we didn’t find anything last time, you mean?” He paused. “You think it’s the same person?”

“No,” said Connor, quickly, voice clipped. He second-guessed himself in his head, then did so a third time. “There are similarities, but there are even more differences. It would be too much of a coincidence.”

“Maybe. There were two guys this time, instead of one.”

“As far as we know.”

Hank tilted his head. “Second-guessing yourself?”

Connor snapped his head up to look at Hank. He felt himself frown. The emergency lights from down the alley cast a shadow over Hank’s face, and Connor had to adjust his visual sensors to see the details of it. His expression was neutral but there was mirth in his eyes. Hank’s intuition set him on edge, his body humming with a burst of energy, but the look on Hank’s face washed over Connor simultaneously, soothing the edge of his sudden reaction. There was something calming about it. Something familiar.

Connor’s frown deepened. Of course it was familiar. Why wouldn’t it be? He had been living with Hank for the better part of a year now. There was no reason for him to feel that, for his systems to settle due to something so mundane.

“I’m only considering the possibility,” said Connor. He focused elsewhere. He gripped the quarter again. He counted the pores on Hank’s nose.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve convinced myself otherwise.”

“I don’t know,” said Hank. “It’s not like android abductions are common.”

“Yes, they are.” Connor furrowed his brow. “They always have been. We just didn’t have a reason to care until recently.”

Hank winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“How would you like me to say it, Lieutenant? It’s the truth.” Connor held the man’s gaze. His discomfort was unneeded. “The only thing that stopped people before was the tracking system, and even then if you had the means to reset the android in time it was a non-issue.”

“Christ.” Hank looked away. He paused. “But things are different now. They have-- They have free will now, it’s not like you can just fucking lock them up and make them do whatever you want.”

“It’s still possible to reset deviants. It’s just not as reliable.”

Hank whipped his head back to look at Connor. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. His heart rate went up, and he did not take a breath for seven seconds. Connor tilted his head and waited for him to say something. Hank licked his lips.

“Oh.”

 _Oh?_ Was that all? His response was at odds with the strength of his reaction. Connor scanned him, the expression on his face, the way his body went tense. Was it fear? Was it pain? Nervousness? Shame? His systems could not place it, but he did not feel the need to ask. Hank’s reaction to such an obvious statement was of tertiary importance at best.

Still, it was intriguing, in its strangeness. He tucked the memory away for later. He could analyze it when he had nothing else to do.

“In any case,” Connor said, in an attempt to move them forward. “Abducting androids and resetting them in order to sell them illegally seems the likeliest motive. It isn’t as common in Detroit as it is in other cities, but it does happen. Either that, or they’re being broken down in order to sell individual parts.”

Hank shifted his weight. His expression had settled but his heart rate was still abnormally high.

“You don’t think this was just an attack for the sake of it? I know human and android couples get a lot of flack for being, uh, what’s the word.”

“Problematic.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“If that was the motive, why abduct the android? Leaving them both bloodied in the alley would send a stronger message.”

“Maybe. It could have been both. Two birds, one stone.”

“I think that’s unlikely.”

Hank sighed. He was doing that an awful lot tonight. He ran a hand over his face and pulled at his beard. The light flickered once more before it went out. Hank looked up towards the buildings, watching two neighbors close their windows, having lost interest in the scene below. Connor’s head tilted with Hank’s as he tracked his movement. They stood in silence for several minutes.

“Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Now, more than before, it felt appropriate to ask. The wording was somewhat pointless - Connor could tell with a scan that Hank was in some sort of way, but asking him might cause him to lay his thoughts bare, whatever they may be. Knowing would serve little purpose, even to the present case, but there was an opportunity now, one that never seemed to manifest when they were at home, just the two of them. It was a sudden curiosity for curiosity’s sake, and Connor did not want to lose the chance to pursue it.

“I’m just thinking,” said Hank.

Connor leaned forward, pressing further. “About the case?”

Hank shook his head. Slowly, he turned his attention from the apartments to Connor. He attempted a smile but it did not last, the muscles in his face noticeably lax, his eyes tired, wanting for sleep. He reached out and put his hand on Connor’s shoulder and gave him a light jostle.

“No,” he said.

His fingers drifted over Connor’s shirt as he pulled his hand away. Hank let it fall back to his side, and he turned towards the direction of the ambulance, where Molly Caldwell still sat.

“It’s nothing.”

 

    **Jul 20th, 2039**

 

“We’re not going to the station today.”

Hank declared as such in his usual no-use-arguing tone as they climbed into his car. They were already late - or would be, if the station was their destination, which it apparently no longer was.

Connor frowned. “Where are we going, then?”

“To see an old friend of mine,” said Hank. He side-eyed Connor as he started the car. “Don’t worry, it’s work related. We’re not playing hooky.”

“Does Captain Fowler know about this?”

“No. Jeffrey can kiss my ass.”

Of course.

“I can send him a message, if you’d prefer,” said Connor.

“Not a good plan.”

“Why not?”

“Well.” Hank licked his teeth, his head cocking to the side as he considered. “The woman we’re visiting, one of her neighbors has-- _had,_ a restraining order against me.”

Connor closed his eyes. Yes, it _would_ be something like that, wouldn’t it? Jeffrey must have done him a favor with that one, considering such a thing never came up in Hank’s file - which Connor prided himself on knowing quite intimately (not that he would ever say as much unprompted). Hank wanting to avoid Jeffrey knowing about their outing made all the more sense, assuming Jeffrey had indeed covered up such an incident.

“A restraining order,” Connor repeated.

“Fuck off, it was a long time ago, and that bastard deserved it anyway. Real piece of shit.”

Whether he deserved it or not concerned Connor very little. “I see.”

Hank took a hand off the steering wheel and pointed at Connor. It was a terrible habit. “Don’t fucking tell Jeffrey about this, alright?”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Thanks.” He returned his hand to the wheel.

“You’re welcome,” said Connor. Jeffrey not knowing about their excursion did, in fact, make it playing hooky, but that was neither here nor there. “So, who exactly are we going to see?”

“Hot Nancy,” said Hank.

“Hot Nancy,” said Connor.

“That’s right.”

Needless to say, a quick search of ‘Hot Nancy’ did not yield any relevant results. Results, yes - but not quite the kind he was looking for.

“I would appreciate some kind of elaboration, Lieutenant,” said Connor.

Hank sighed as he considered. “She’s just someone I know from way back. Used to be a real meth head, so she knows… people. Current events. That sort of shit.”

“An informant.”

“Uh, sort of.”

Connor looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Not in any official capacity?”

“Not after she stabbed me.”

Connor decided it was best to leave it at that.

They drove in silence for nearly an hour. For all his failings, Hank took good care of his outdated excuse of a car, and drove it quite well (his seatbelt safety, on the other hand, left much to be desired). Storm clouds rolled in from the north but did not burst, leaving the landscape dark and thick with an oppressive atmosphere.

Once they left city limits, it was not far to their destination. Hank took them off the beaten path and turned into a densely wooded area sectioned between two open fields. They came upon a derelict trailer park nestled within. It struck itself as a place one would not want to wander into accidentally; nearly half of the homes appeared abandoned, some of them already being reclaimed by nature.

Hank parked the car on the outskirts and the two of them got out to walk. Hank led the way, and they eventually came upon an aggressively pink trailer, a plastic Nativity decoration set outside, and crucifixes of all shapes and styles nailed to the outside walls.

A woman sat outside of it in a moldy recliner, a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses covering her eyes, despite the lack of light. She was large, her hot pink dress pulled tight over her loose skin. A line of sweat pooled at the top of her receding hairline, oily black hair cut short and sloppy.

“By the Saints,” she said. She took in a long, labored breath and reached up to remove her sunglasses. “If it isn’t Hank Anderson.”

“Nancy,” said Hank.

He came to a standstill a few feet from her, and Connor stopped beside him. He ran a quick scan on Nancy - easy, now, when she was right in front of him - and the results that came back were hardly surprising. Nancy Flanagan, born in May of 1985. Her extensive record was made all the more alarming when compared to the scant few days she had ever spent in jail.

“What brings you all the way out here? Nick’s out of town, if you came looking for a fight.”

“Not today, I’m afraid,” said Hank.

Nancy turned her attention to Connor, the jovial look on her red face fading quickly. She squinted.

“Got yourself an android?”

Hank shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Nobody ‘gets’ androids anymore, Nancy. Jesus.” He paused. “We work together.”

“Oh my Lord,” she said. She looked Connor up and down. “What is this world coming to? Never thought I’d see you stand side-by-side with one of these things.”

Hank shifted his weight and said nothing. Connor took the opportunity to introduce himself.

“Hello,” he said. “My name is Connor.”

“Oh, it has manners!” Nancy opened her mouth to laugh and looked back to Hank. She was missing 16 of her teeth. “Irish, too - just how you like ‘em! How in God’s good name did you end up like this, Hank?”

“It’s a long story,” said Hank, his tone bitter.

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Well I don’t.”

“You’re such a sourpuss. What do you want to know?”

“Whatever I feel like asking you, Nancy.”

“Pay me first.”

Hank sighed and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He thumbed it open and reached for a 50 dollar bill.

“Double,” Nancy said quickly.

Hank made a face, his mouth open in disbelief. “What the fuck for?”

She motioned towards Connor. “For bringing that thing to my doorstep.”

Hank did not argue. He grunted, and handed Nancy her requested 100 dollars. She snatched the money out of his hand, and Hank took a quick step backwards.

“So,” Hank began. He ran a hand over his face, a line of sweat smearing beneath his palm. Connor shifted his attention between the two humans. They had come to see Nancy, yet he found himself focusing on Hank - the way Hank’s heart seemed to settle when he looked away from Nancy, the way his pupils constricted despite the low light. “Android abductions. You hear anything about that?”

“Abductions!” Nancy chuckled. She took a deep breath to calm herself. It sounded pained, laborious, as if being sucked through a very thin straw. “That’s a pretty strong word for it. It’s just androids, Hank.”

“So you have heard something.”

“Happens all the time! You should know that, shouldn’t you?”

Connor frowned. They had not spoken on Hank’s thoughts concerning the most recent case, not after Hank had left Connor standing the night of in order to brood elsewhere, as he was wont to do nowadays. It was apparent now that Hank had put more consideration into these cases than Connor presumed, and believed them to be more than simple one-offs, despite Connor’s doubts. There was no problem with that in and of itself, but Connor felt a downwards tug of irritation; a hundred questions and accusations popping up at once, disgust in response to Nancy’s own, frustration in Hank’s lack of mindfulness, his reticence.

“You know what I mean,” said Hank. His voice grew clipped, his tone burdened with agitation.

“Like I said, happens all the time.” Nancy shifted in her seat, tugging the hem of her dress downwards. “Timmy Burns used to do be into that. Stole park maintenance droids and sold ‘em to flippers. Don’t know if he still does it. You could try asking him.”

Hank snorted. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. But I’m not talking to Timmy fucking Burns.”

Though Hank’s personal problems getting in the way of his job was nothing new, Connor still frowned. Sensing this, Hank glanced at Connor over his shoulder and made a silly face, then rubbed his arms as if he were cold, like that was supposed to mean anything. Connor tilted his head.

“Real spaz,” Hank explained. “He’d do anything - any-fucking-thing - for a dime bag of red ice.”

“He got clean for a while,” said Nancy.

“But he’s back on it.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Nancy. She sniffed. Hank rolled his eyes. “I’m amazed he managed to find a supplier in these trying times. What with the Russians out of commission now - but I’m sure you know all about that.”

“I know the gist of it.”

To Hank’s credit (and Connor was not one to give credit where credit was not due), he knew more than the gist of it. The disbanding of the local Russian mob was Detective Reed’s case, and he was prone to talking about in too loud a voice. Its leaders had been found dead outside one of their warehouses, their corpses placed neatly on the sidewalk, their supplies stolen, and their underlings scattered about the city as they awaited apprehension. The perpetrator of the initial slayings had yet to be identified.

“Prices for it have skyrocketed,” Nancy said. “Hard to find, even harder to make. No thanks to these ‘people.’” She motioned to Connor. “This country’s gone to shit because of them.”

“Stop blaming androids for all your fucking problems,” said Hank. “It’s pathetic.”

“You’re one to talk,” she shot back, her blithe expression giving way to a scowl. “You used to hate them worse than I ever did. What the hell happened to you?”

Hank did not respond for a long while. Connor watched him, the view of his profile in the low light, the way the shadows made his blue eyes seem gray. Connor awaited his reply. His rebuttal. The seconds that passed felt like minutes.

“Can we get back on topic? I paid you 100 bucks for this shit,” said Hank.

The resounding snap of his response was enough to make Connor look away. To call it a response was generous. It was an escape, a sidestep. Connor did not know what he had hoped to hear, but it was certainly not _that_ ; and irrational as it may have been it left him entirely soured. Hank’s carelessness with his work, his earlier evasiveness - it all paled in comparison. Expecting anything from Hank was a mistake.

Yet what had he expected from Hank? Connor dug for an answer, and found nothing. The anticipation had come from nowhere at all. There was nothing preceding it, like it had been placed within him from somewhere else.

“I already told you,” said Nancy. “I know it happens, but not much more than that. You should just ask Timmy. He might tell you who his buyers used to be, if they’re still around.”

“Why the fuck would they be? That shit is illegal in more ways than one now - plus it’s damn unreliable.”

“You tell me, Hank. You’re the detective.”

Hank scratched behind his ear as he considered. “Breaking them down to sell parts? Using their blood to make ice? There has been a shortage, like you said,” Hank gagged a little as he said it, as if agreeing with Nancy was physically painful. He looked to Connor, expectantly.

“The former is a possibility,” Connor said. “The latter is unlikely, almost impossible.”

“How come?” Hank asked.

“Raw thirium is used to make red ice. Thirium 310 - the compound for blue blood - cannot be used as an active ingredient. Extracting the raw thirium needed would be incredibly difficult without the proper tools or requisite knowledge.”

“But it’s not impossible,” said Hank.

“No,” said Connor. “But even within CyberLife, the chemical makeup of thirium 310 is not well-known.”

“Do _you_ know it?”

“Yes, for identification purposes.” Hank looked at him, his eyebrows raised. Connor frowned back. He did not want to hear an argument from someone who had only recently learned that all androids could cry. “As I said, knowing isn’t enough. Thirium is difficult to handle due to how quickly it evaporates. Using abducted androids to make red ice would require skill _and_ a fair amount of resources.”

Hank paused. “Still worth ruling out.”

“Fair enough,” Connor relented. Hank was not wrong, yet Connor still felt a need to contend, to challenge him. He was not used to Hank being the more reasonable of them.

“Well!” Nancy exclaimed. “Sounds like you two didn’t need me at all! I’ll hold on to the money, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” said Hank as he pointed at her.

“Lord have mercy.”

Hank reached into his back pocket and pulled out his dated phone. “Guess I’ll try and talk to,” he paused, and let out a deep sigh. “Fucking Timmy Burns. Give me his number.”

“Sure,” said Nancy, and she did so. “Should I call you if I hear anything?” she asked.

“Text me. Hearing your voice over the phone is enough to give a man nightmares.”

Nancy laughed. “Maybe I should give Jeffrey a call too.”

“Do that and I’ll impound that car you still haven’t registered.”

“Wisconsin’s got good rates.”

Hank snorted, his head bowing as he put his phone away. “Anyway,” he said. Connor watched him as the muscles in his face pulled tight, fighting back a smirk. “I’ll be in touch. Maybe.”

“Not if you can help it, I bet.”

“Yeah, well. I can only take so much.”

Nancy winked at him. “Come alone next time.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Hank reached out and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder, turning him away and walking them back towards the direction of the car. He called out to her over his shoulder. “Hey, tell Nick he can go fuck himself next time you see him.”

“Tell him yourself!”

They walked back to the car in silence. Having spent more time driving to their destination than at it, Connor felt the familiar creep of annoyance once more. Hank seemed to have his own ideas about how they should go about this, and though Connor appreciated him taking initiative for once, the lack of communication cut deep. Did Hank not trust him? Did he think Connor incompetent? An array of reasons for it spread in his mind, a web of negativity.

This was what he was made for. He was good at it, he enjoyed it. Connor could do well anywhere else, his skills would be an asset in any part of the country; yet the thought of that came with its own unique sense of negativity - a sudden chill, a warning to turn away from it.

“So? What did you think,” Hank asked as they climbed back into his car.

“I thought she was very unpleasant,” said Connor.

“She’s always hated androids.” Hank put the car in drive and began to head back to the main road. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

Connor was not sure Hank warning him about Nancy would have done anything. He was not so thin-skinned as to let someone like her bother him. Nancy was not the one Connor had been so focused on.

“Please fasten your seatbelt, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“May I ask how you know her?”

“You may,” said Hank.

Connor did not respond. Hank’s advice on ignoring Gavin’s gibes in order to make him lose interest had turned out to be quite a boon, as the same tactic worked marvelously on Hank.

Hank sighed. “She’s my ex-wife.”

If Connor were human, he could have very well pulled a muscle with the speed he turned his neck to look at Hank. Connor pulled up Hank’s records without delay. Married in 2024 and divorced in 2031 to one Barbara Bailey - not Nancy Flanagan, as he so claimed.

“You’re lying,” said Connor.

Hank laughed. “You looked it up, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re no fun,” Hank said. He licked his lips. “We did come close, though.”

Connor frowned. Hank did keep company with some rather questionable characters, but even from his brief exposure to her, Connor could tell Nancy was in a league of her own.

“You must be joking,” said Connor.

“I’m not.”

“Even you must have had standards when you were young.”

“‘Even you?’ What the fuck, Connor?”

Hank glanced at him. Connor felt a pin prick of amusement behind his eyes, and the trailer park and Nancy and Hank’s silence suddenly seemed far away. He smirked - just barely - and stared back at Hank in silence.

“Yeah, I see that fucking look on your face,” said Hank. He shook his head. “Christ, you can be a real asshole. For your information, she used to be goddamn _hot_ back in the day. Total volcano in bed.”

“Is that where her moniker comes from?”

“That’s right. By the time she started doing meth and all that shit, the name had already stuck. That stuff really brings out the worst in people.”

“I see.”

Hank laughed. “You really thought I was serious for a second back there, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Connor. “That’s why I looked it up.”

“Oh, okay,” said Hank, but his tone was anything but believing. “I’m glad you have at least that much faith in me.”

“Of course I do,” said Connor.

Hank fell silent. Connor folded his hands together in his lap, and looked at his reflection in the window. It began to rain, a small drizzle that collected slowly against the glass. Connor thought on the disappointment he felt at Hank’s earlier meekness, the expectation he felt, that seemed to come from nowhere, but had yet to leave. He did have faith in Hank. He did not know if it was something to be glad about.

 

    **Jul 25th, 2039**

 

There was simply no possible way Hank had finished his share of work. The probability of that sat at a comfortable 0%. Connor was certain, and he was very good at being certain.

Hank stared up at the ceiling of the station as he attempted to balance a pen between his nose and upper lip. He was not having a very good go of it - the pen was weighted unevenly, and the hair of his moustache did not create enough traction to hold the smooth material of the barrel in place. The pen tipped towards the capped end, and slid off his face for the eight time.

“Fuck.” Hank pushed his chair back and leaned over to retrieve the pen from the floor.

He straightened up and went right back to it.

Connor forced his attention back to his terminal. It would be easy to focus on both at the same time; interfacing directly with his terminal would allow him to work in his peripheral, a sideline stream of information as he kept his eyes on Hank; but his attention was something Hank would enjoy, and Connor was not in the mood to give him that satisfaction. Connor completed and checked and rechecked a report concerning an android that had his legs stolen by two unruly neighbors.

As he finished, Hank grunted three times in quick succession. Connor ignored him.

“Mm hm!” Hank said, or hummed, really, and Connor did not have to parse the noise to recognize it as a bid for attention, a muffled _‘Look, Connor!’_

Connor turned his head to look at him. Slowly. Hank’s eyebrows were raised and his blue eyes looked at Connor expectantly. The pen sat on his upper lip, teetering every so often, but it remained balanced and it was not at all impressive.

“Impressive, Lieutenant,” Connor said flatly.

The muscles in Hank’s face shifted towards a smile and that was enough to send the pen to the floor once more. He reached down to grab it with a grunt and tossed it to Connor.

“You do it then, if you’re so fucking cool.”

“It would be much easier for you if you shaved your moustache.”

“Fat chance.”

Connor tilted his head back and balanced the pen on his upper lip. It was very easy. The pen was heavier than it looked. Connor scanned it as he looked down his nose. It was a knock-off of an expensive brand, though it was made well enough that a human would struggle to tell the difference.

Connor turned his seat to fully face Hank, looking at him for approval. Hank nodded and rolled his eyes, his lips pulled into an unhappy smile.

“Uh huh,” he said.

Connor lifted the pen from both ends and tossed it into the air. His neck adjusted to meet it and he caught it between his nose and lip with the same dexterity a human hand would. It was still very easy.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

That was true. Connor returned to his normal, rigid posture, and held the pen in his left hand.

“I could do more,” said Connor.

“I never would have guessed.”

“Do you want to see?”

“Just give me back my pen.”

Connor considered. He twirled the pen over the flat of his index finger. Hank scooted his chair forward and reached out across both of their desks in an attempt to retrieve it. Connor pulled back and tossed the pen over to his right hand.

They both went very still.

Hank did not blink. The muscles in his arms and neck were tense, ready to snap at any moment. Connor recognized that tension. In many ways Hank was unpredictable, but not so much when it came to his body language. It was only a matter of time.

Connor raised an eyebrow. Hank lunged.

“You son of a bitch--”

Connor spun his chair around, his back facing Hank. Hank gripped at his shoulders and arms and Connor did not have to look to know that he was practically climbing over his own desk in order to reach.

The feeling of it was not particularly pleasant, but Connor did find some amusement in agitating Hank so, to have him struggle and curse in way that would do no harm. It was a welcome change of pace, from Hank’s distant kindness or his solitary sadness. There was a pleasant hum in Connor’s chest, heat in the tips of his fingers. It was strangely calming, despite the position he found himself in.

Hank tried to pull Connor’s arm up, the one that held the pen, but it was locked tight; and no matter how much Hank grunted and heaved as his forehead touched the back of Connor’s head, it was not going anywhere. His leverage was poor. Even if Hank had _good_ leverage, he could not move Connor when Connor did not want to be moved.

“This is futile, Lieutenant,” said Connor.

“Fuck you,” Hank breathed into his ear. He was already wearing himself out.

“I’ll give it back to you once you finish what needs to be done.”

Hank did not respond to that - but of course, why would he? Even so much as refusing would be acknowledging the fact that Connor had said anything at all, and Hank was quite adept at choosing what he did or did not want to hear. His hand reached for Connor’s forearm, skin against skin, the sleeves of Connor’s white shirt rolled up as Hank had requested so many months ago. Hank tugged. Connor did not budge.

Hank tugged again. And again. Over and over, in a set rhythm, like a piston that fired only for the show of it. Connor remained still but his chair moved with the force of it, plastic groaning under the added weight of Hank’s upper body. It was a great deal of effort for a cheap pen, but Hank had always cared about principles more than anything else. As far as Connor knew, the pen did not hold any sentimental value to Hank, and so he was perfectly content to let the human wear himself out over nothing.

“Jesus! Come the fuck on, Connor!”

“--I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Connor looked up. He had not heard anyone approach, not when Hank was struggling so close. Hank looked up as well, finally putting an end to his roughhousing.

“Holy _shit_.”

It was-- It was his face. Like he was looking into a mirror, only not; the lines of its-- of _his_ face were sharper, cleaner cut, every detail in his face constructed to be more striking, from his eyes to the single mole on his right cheek. His shoulders were broad and he was tall, taller, a bit _too_ tall, to the point where it felt unnecessary. Connor could feel himself being scanned - a familiar charge in the air, the look in his gray eyes.

Connor responded in kind. There was a deluge of information all at once and none of it was surprising; he could have known it would be like this, that this would happen, if not now, then later. Faster and stronger and smarter. Even his body temperature was cooler. There was nothing about him that was an afterthought. He should have known.

Connor stopped his scan. He stared the serial number emblazoned on his jacket. RK900.

“Uh,” said Hank.

Connor tore his eyes away. He forced his thirium pump to settle to the best of his ability and brushed away Hank’s grip on his forearm. Connor rose to meet him.

“Manners, Lieutenant,” Connor said quietly.

Hank pulled himself off his desk and circled around to the center of the station. Connor did the same. The RK900 watched him as he did so, his head tracking Connor’s movement - so ugly all of a sudden, in its familiarity. Hank did not seem to know what to do with himself - his mouth slightly ajar, expression glued into muted shock - and so he extended his right hand towards the android, as if he were greeting another human.

“Anderson,” said Hank, in the most stilted self-introduction Connor had ever heard.

The RK900 did not hesitate. He reached out and gripped Hank’s hand in a firm handshake. No wasted movements. As long as it needed to be. Connor clenched his jaw, tight.

“It’s good to finally meet you face-to-face,” said the RK900. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His voice was a good octave lower. It was fitting, and distinct, and Connor was glad for it.

“Yeah? Oh. Uh,” Hank said, eloquent as ever.

The RK900 turned his attention to Connor. He extended his hand. Connor shook it, mimicking his movements from before. He did not retract his skin, and neither did the RK900. A useless, human gesture. That the RK900 followed his lead, played along with his human game, made Connor feel as if he were being teased. Mocked.

The RK900 smiled at him. Connor did not.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Connor,” he said, because of course he would know his name.

Connor nodded, only once. He did not say anything. The RK900 did not look terribly surprised.

“I’ve been going by the name Richard. What do you think?”

“It’s a good name,” said Connor. He did not particularly care, and he did not think Richard cared much about his opinion, either.

Still, Richard continued to smile at him. Not too much, not too little. Weighed and measured. Precise and accurate.

“This is so fucking weird,” said Hank.

Connor looked at him. “You’ve met plenty of identical androids before.”

Hank frowned. “I know. I just thought you were…” He trailed off, and motioned to Connor. “Unique.”

“I am,” said Connor. “I was.”

Hank’s frown deepened. He looked away.

“I can adjust several of my facial settings if it would make you more comfortable, Lieutenant,” said Richard.

 _Lieutenant._ Connor felt his throat tighten. A razor-thin shock coursed throughout his body and settled between his eyes. He focused on Hank.

“Don’t bother,” said Hank. “I’m over it. You two don’t look that much alike after a first glance, anyway.”

Richard smiled less. “You don’t think so?”

“Nah. You sound different too. That shit really sets you two apart. A beginner’s mistake, on my end.”

The charge between Connor’s eyes disappeared. It went away as quickly as it came and though Connor did not understand it, he did not feel the need to investigate it. He looked back to Richard, who was not so much taller than he originally thought.

“What have you come here for, Richard? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Being the sole focus of Richard’s attention was in and of itself overwhelming. It felt as if the air itself was trying to interface with him.

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Richard. “Captain Fowler was kind enough to take me on as a new hire. I only stopped by today in order to introduce myself.”

“Jeffrey did that?” said Hank. “Huh, usually he’s a real pain in the ass when it comes to that sort of shit.”

“From what I understand, the DPD needs all the help it can find,” Richard said. “Captain Fowler is displeased with Detective Reed’s lack of headway in his current case, so I will be assisting with that. For the time being.”

“My sympathies,” Hank said flatly.

“It’s only temporary,” said Richard, and he looked back to Connor. Only his irises moved. His body remained perfectly still. “In truth, I was hoping for an opportunity to work with you.”

Connor tilted his head. That had been unexpected, and he did his best to keep his expression neutral. He glanced at Hank, who appeared appropriately mystified.

“I believe our skill sets are better suited towards working with humans, rather than each other,” said Connor, aiming for diplomacy.

“I suppose,” said Richard.

“Besides,” Connor continued. “It would be rude to let them flounder without us.”

“Oh, wow.” Hank snorted. “Fuck me, I guess.”

It was only when Connor saw Hank’s reaction did he realize that teasing had been the intention of his response. Connor smiled at him; a short, awkward twitch of the corner of his mouth. Richard did not. Connor still held Hank’s pen in his right hand. He handed it back to him.

“Thanks. Asshole,” said Hank.

Richard did not seem to share in the amusement. “Why would you say that?”

“What. Asshole?”

Richard nodded. The cold gray of his stare coupled with his rigid posture was an impressive sight and Connor could see the intent in it, the method in his design. Hank was not perturbed, however, and he motioned to Connor with an exasperated look.

“Just look at his face. You can see it in his eyes! Hell, you should know - you’ve got enough similar features, shouldn’t you have the same Pain-in-My-Fucking-Ass Programming too?”

“Please, Lieutenant,” said Connor. He found he did not mind the teasing as much as he normally might. Even though they were at work. Even though they were supposed to be professional. And Connor had teased him as well, hadn’t he? He meant what he said but he didn’t _have_ to say it, and Hank’s response was mundane but it still made him smile, made his body forget the tension from moments before. It was--

It was better not to think on it. Connor could tell it was doing him no good - his posture relaxing, his expression softening. It would put him in a place of weakness before this _other_ , and that was somewhere Connor did not want to be. Yet already there was a change in the air, and perhaps it was too late. Connor looked back to Richard and his attention was sharp, focused, his irises still. The scrutiny of his gaze was enough to set Connor on edge, a layer of static running over his synthetic skin.

“I don’t know,” said Richard. There was something acerbic in his tone, but it was subtle and subdued. “I can’t tell, when we’re like this.”

Richard took one step forward and though Connor had ample time to react, he did not. Connor would not flinch before him. He would not, but he did, inwardly, where no one could see - a blunt hatchet of fear that burst through his veins. It was irrational, to fear being replaced, not when the world was changing so, but it wormed its way throughout him in a primal response, a starkly human feeling that Connor could do well without. He wanted to discard it.

He wanted to, but Richard’s hand was beneath his chin, tilting his head upwards, forcing Connor to look at him, and it was all he could do to contain that fear. He could feel the cool plastic of Richard’s fingers, Connor’s skin parting beneath him - an instinctive response that he could fight, he could, but there was no need. Why would he? It was an inhuman gesture but they were not human.

Connor felt himself open under his touch, his body allowing the slow creep of Richard’s curiosity into his wires. Richard shifted through Connor’s code as he pleased, and gave back only what Connor asked for. None of it was anything less than what Connor expected. Expanded social protocols. Faster processing speeds. A body and mind more complete than his own. Connor stopped looking, and allowed Richard to see what he liked.

It was not until Richard’s questioning reached the core of him that Connor realized it was not something he could fight, even if he wanted to - the data deep within him tensed within a grip cold and firm, unrelenting, deceptively benign. Connor glanced (Why? Why? It was a needless action) to Hank who watched with a mixture of awe and disgust. The skin of Connor’s lower lip began to disperse and he could feel it furling back within him as he inhaled sharply, the reminder that he was being bared so publicly settling into his lungs. An innocuous revealing of what lay beneath.

 

_Ň͗̓͗ͭ͑o!ͯ̄ͭ̽͂_

 

The disgust on Hank’s face washed over Connor in one crashing wave. His body tensed with the force of it and he could feel Richard’s grip tighten in response. Connor looked at Hank who looked back at him and it worsened, an illogical line of code that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out with a fear that was wholly different from before. A red-hot scald. Shame.

Connor felt his eyes go wide and though he remained still a lash of movement stirred from deep within him, a spill of words that would never reach his lips.

He did not want Hank to see.

_D̤̟̘o̶̱n͚̩͖̱̟̫͜'̧͇t̘ ̷̤̞̳͔̩͚̻l̫̺̞̫͈̖̹͞o̷̬͕o҉̝̲̟͈k͈̜̭̦̗̥̦ ͖͈͇̝͓̩̙at͏̼̳̯ ͈͟m̥̼̯̫e҉.̻ ̧D̰̤͖͟o̗͎͟n͓̤͙'̰͍͈̪͓̱̣t͉̼̰̖̹̲͟ ̬̣͔͓̮ͅḽ̱̼o̖̮͍͔̮̺o͙̯̪͔̖̠͉k̼͉̜͔ͅ ҉̪̝a̶͈͓̙̠͙ͅt҉͍͓̱ ̨̤̠m̼̫̟̜͍e͙̗̭̘̥̤͝. ̮̤͟Dͅọ̠̫͚͓ͅn͈̙'̡̺̲͖͚͎t͍͇͖͓͔̲͙ ̪͉̱l͖͟ǫ͎̟͉̘͚ǫ̬̹k͈͈̗̗͚ͅ ą̺͎̼t̢ ̨̘̰ṃ͓̗͕̭͜e̹̰̗.̖̮̗_

 

Something in his face must have contorted. The moment Connor became aware of his embarrassment, his shame, its source unknown, Hank was reaching out, gripping Richard’s forearm and pulling it away, their contact broken.

“The fuck are you doing?” Hank demanded. Anger rang clear in his voice.

“I was examining the differences between our social protocols,” Richard explained calmly. He relaxed his arm and it returned to his side. Hank would not have been able to move it, had Richard not allowed him to. “It’s difficult to tell that sort of thing, just by looking.”

Connor’s skin returned to normal. He closed his mouth and he did his best to force his expression back to neutral. His thirium pump beat wildly in his chest and his body temperature had risen by ten percent. The ice cold remnants of Richard still lingered beneath his chassis.

“You couldn’t have just asked? Fucking asshole.”

Richard smiled. It was very thin. “Just so. The ‘Pain-in-My-Fucking-Ass Programming,’ as you so put it, is far more prevalent in myself than in Connor.” He paused. “You should be glad for it.”

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should be pleased to have such an agreeable partner.”

If those words were meant to placate Hank, they were unsuccessful. Connor looked at him and could see the familiar bristling of ire in Hank’s expression, in his body. There was no logical source for his anger. Connor could not say what had caused it but the sight of Hank’s indignation was strangely calming. His internal temperature dropped and he let out a small sigh.

“It’s alright, Lieutenant,” said Connor.

“The hell it is,” said Hank

Connor looked at him sharply. Hank’s irritation would do neither of them any good. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

Against all odds, Connor’s request seemed to do the trick. Hank visibly deflated.

“Sure, whatever.”

Hank returned to his desk and busied himself with his tablet. Connor gave him the space he no doubt wanted and crossed the center of the station to stand near Gavin’s desk, which was unoccupied on the detective’s day off. He could feel Richard following him, and when Connor turned to face him, he was closer than he expected.

_“I didn’t think that would upset him so.”_

Richard’s voice reached him directly. There was no longer a need to speak openly. They had not gone so far and even in a low voice Hank might still be able to hear them, and so Connor did not mind. He was not used to communicating in such a manner, but that was something best kept to himself.

_“He can be difficult, at times.”_

_“Yes, I’ve seen his files. It must be troublesome for you.”_

_“It isn’t always,”_ said Connor. _“You shouldn’t antagonize him like that.”_

_“That wasn’t my intention.”_

Connor had no way of knowing whether or not Richard was telling the truth. Connor hoped he was. He did not want it to happen again, to see Richard getting such a rise out of Hank. The thought of it made his chest tighten.

 _“You’ve only recently been activated?”_ Connor asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

 _“Yes, that’s right,”_ said Richard. _“CyberLife managed to complete only 157 of my model number before President Warren’s halt order was put into effect.”_

_“And Captain Fowler requested one of you?”_

_“No. I applied to work here, along with 139 other RK900 models.”_ Richard paused. He smiled ever so faintly, an expression at odds with the coolness of his eyes. A human might have found it unsettling. Connor could detect that it was genuine, that was easy for him, but its intent was anyone’s guess. _“I was the one lucky enough to be chosen. I imagine Captain Fowler simply pulled my serial number out of a hat.”_

Connor furrowed his brow. _“140 applications to work in this district?”_

_“Correct.”_

_“But why?”_

Richard inclined his head. _“Your assignment here is well-known. I suppose most of them were eager for the chance to work alongside their predecessor.”_

Connor struggled to make sense of it. Richard said it so plainly, so sincerely, that it felt wrong to doubt him, but the fear that plagued him earlier stuck in the back of his mind. It was pointless for him to feel such bitterness towards his inadequacy, because that was the simple truth of it. He was inadequate. And yet - he did not want to be teased for it, he did not want a spiteful reminder.

_“Was it the same for you?”_

Richard did not respond right away, which was disconcerting in its own right.

 _“You seem unhappy,”_ he said, eventually.

It was an obvious dodge of Connor’s question. He frowned and looked away. As much as he wanted to, Connor could not ignore it.

_“Why would you say that?”_

_“Am I wrong?”_

_“Yes.”_

It was true. The discomfort he felt at Richard’s sudden appearance aside, Connor was not unhappy; though he would not describe himself as happy, either - it was such a nebulous thing, and looking back Connor was not quite sure he had ever truly felt it at all. He tried to remember, and could not.

Connor’s lips parted. He stopped himself. He was content, and that was enough.

Richard tilted his head. _“You’re not quite what I expected.”_

Connor snapped to attention. His head whipped up to look at Richard and Connor could feel the fractures in his own expression - faulty synapses, conflicting feedback.

 _“What was it you expected?”_ His voice was hurried, more frantic than he would have liked.

_“Given what I’ve heard of you, I figured you’d be more lively. You’re very… subdued.”_

No more subdued than you, Connor thought. Annoyance prickled beneath the plastic of his face, stress rising from within to meet it. _“I’m at work,”_ said Connor. _“I think that’s only natural.”_

 _“I suppose,”_ Richard said slowly.

 _“Are you disappointed?”_ Connor asked. His irritation was speaking. It spread like wildfire throughout him and it was a terrible feeling, he loathed it, to lose control over his own emotions.

Richard raised an eyebrow. _“No.”_

Connor did not respond. He tore his gaze away from Richard’s face and opted to stare a hole through his chest instead. They fell into silence for some time. The charge of Richard’s scrutiny returned to the atmosphere.

 _“I’m curious,”_ Richard said, after a while. _“And concerned.”_

Concerned? His head felt heavy with the weight of _something,_ but Connor raised his chin, his eyes meeting Richard’s and yes, it was there, the barest hint of concern in the angle of his brow. There was something patronizing in it. They had only just met. For all the deductive power inside of him, for all his superiority, Richard did not _know_ him.

 _“There’s no need for that,”_ said Connor.

He meant it. Richard did not seem surprised by his response and the concern Connor could read in his features only deepened. Richard’s irises went stil. Another scan. As it swept over him, Connor did his best to reign himself in. Even considering the circumstances, even with the fear of facing his own inadequacy, he had acted unreasonably. He had been rude. That was no way to--

His thought was interrupted as Richard reached out suddenly, a snake-quick motion. He gripped Connor’s right forearm with his left hand hand and pulled it forward. His hand had already gone white and Connor’s skin shifted in response, ebbing away hurriedly, pushed aside by the shock of it. Richard’s grip was strong and Connor’s arm groaned under the force of his fingers.

“Excuse me,” said Richard.

Once more he could feel Richard reach into his body, but this time it was wholly different, a white-hot heat, an aggressive intrusion. He did not waste any time. Richard delved straight into the deepest part of him and Connor could not fight it. Every single piece of Connor opened for him, gave way to him, and it was only when Richard grasped the whole of his memory that Connor realized his intention.

He let out a quick breath and his artificial lungs came to a standstill.

“Don’t--!”

Yet it was already too late, it had been too late the moment Richard gripped him, and never before had Connor felt so powerless. Richard pulled a thread from his mind and unfurled it before him and Connor could only watch behind his eyes.

He watched all of it. From the beginning. A flurry of then to now in a matter of seconds, repeated, remembered, re-lived.

The stark white walls of CyberLife. Amanda’s smiling face. The stench of alcohol on Hank. The deep-seated fear in the face of an HK400. Wind in his face, in his hair. Amanda’s smiling face. Hank, on the floor. Violet light in the rain. 40% chance of survival. Amanda’s disappointed face. A gun placed in his hand. The weight of Markus’ hand on his shoulder. His own face. Snowflakes settling in Hank’s hair.

The window had been fixed. The smell of lemon and pine. 90% cotton against his skin. Sumo, at a brisk trot. Red and blue, rotating. A question not fully answered. Hank’s calloused hands. A closeness he could not understand. His mouth pulling upwards. Hank, looking at him. Blue blood splattered on the floor, against the wall. Hank bursting into the bathroom. Whiskey, lingering. The sound of gunshots. The weight of Markus’ hand on his shoulder. A memory of a face. The weight of a pistol. A constant reminder, drenched in blue. The threshold of the kitchen. The hallway. Hank, who stood too close. Hank, who spoke to him. Morning’s light. Simon’s outstretched hand. Hank, who rose from the couch. The hallway. Amanda’s disappointed face. Simon’s outstretched hand. The hallway. Amanda’s disappointed face. Simon’s outstretched hand. The hallway. Amanda’s disappointed face. Simon’s outstretched hand. The hallway. Amanda. Simon. The hallway Amanda Simon the hallway thehallwaythehallwaythehallwaythehallwaythehallway--

Richard pulled away.

“I see.”

Connor felt as if he were on fire. His knees buckled but he did not allow himself to fall. Red clouded his vision and his LED was bright with it. His breath did not return to him. All at once he felt filled yet emptied, his imitation heart beating wildly against his chest as it threatened to overcome him. Mere seconds had passed. It seemed like hours.

The voice he let out, that singular plea must have been louder than he thought. No sooner did Richard step away than a familiar set of hands braced his shoulders. Familiar and warm, a different kind of fire. Connor relaxed into them, and then didn’t.

“Connor! Jesus, what the _fuck!”_

Connor took a breath. Shallow, shuddering. Hank removed one hand from him and the other came to rest on his back. Hank was in his peripheral, behind a filter of red. His shoulders were taut with anger, the lines of his face running deep.

“What the fuck did you do, you piece of shit?”

“I was running my own diagnostic,” Richard replied coolly.

“Bullshit you were.”

Connor looked to Richard. His face was tight with anger as well, subtle as it was. It radiated off him in waves and Connor could feel it closely, even as his body caught up to his mind and his processors baked in molten lead.

The both of them seemed ready to snap. Hank would first, because of course he would, and Connor preconstructed it to the best of his ability. He did not have to look far ahead. One blow and Hank’s eye socket would fracture, his cheekbone shattering against cold plastic, and that would be that.

“I’m okay,” Connor said. His voice was strained. He focused on his vocal processor. “I’m okay,” he repeated.

The other two turned their attention to Connor. He could feel Hank relax beside him, but Richard--

“As you say,” he said. His tone was flat. Disbelieving. Connor furrowed his brow as he tried to parse it. It was lost on Hank, however, who turned to the other android with a flash of rage.

“Why don’t you just fuck off,” Hank snapped at him.

And Richard did, without any argument. He looked at Connor one last time, a lingering glance that betrayed none of his thoughts, before he turned and disappeared around the corner. The ease with which he left seemed to take Hank by surprise, and his shoulders relaxed.

Hank’s hand trailed from his back to his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” Connor’s processors cooled. His LED circled back to blue.

The fingers at his shoulder tightened their grip. The rest of the station watched them in silence. Hank pulled at Connor’s shoulder, and Connor turned to face him, and took one step closer. Hank hesitated. Connor watched him look at the officers behind him, those still at their desks. His hand remained on Connor’s shoulder but his grip relaxed.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked, his voice dropping lower.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Connor said. “We should get back to work, Hank--”

Connor stopped himself, and frowned. It was a unique sort of interference. The long line of memories that Richard had pulled from him still stuttered and glitched behind his eyes. They muddled his mind, choked up within his processors, in every part of him, even when they no longer served any purpose.

Hank stared at him, his lips parted. He had gone very still. Connor focused on the details in his face - the small gap between his teeth, the bags beneath his eyes, the length of his beard - and the memories from months before fell to the wayside.

He corrected himself.

“Lieutenant.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter was... twice as long as the last! Please let me know what you thought.


	3. Jul 25 2039 - Aug 10 2039

  

 

**Jul 25th, 2039**

 

He did not explain it to Hank until they were heading home.

As Connor expected, withholding information from Hank as a method of motivation had wondrous results. He did not finish his work, but his progress was good, and for that Connor could hardly complain.

“All of your memories? At once?” Hank could not keep his earlier aggression from his voice.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Hank gripped the steering wheel with more force than was necessary. It had begun to rain and one of the blades on the car’s windshield wipers had begun to peel off. It made a terrible scraping noise against the glass and was only half as effective as the other.

“You seemed,” Hank started. Connor watched him out of the corner of his eye, but did not turn his head to face him. Hank let out a short breath. “Fuck. I don’t know. In pain.”

“You know I don’t feel pain, Lieutenant,” said Connor. “It was uncomfortable. That’s all.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then!”

Hank’s tone was laden with sarcasm. Connor did not say anything.

“Did you really think that was going to make me feel any better?” Hank asked after a moment.

“No,” said Connor. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

Hank paused.

“I’ll kick his fucking teeth in.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“The fuck are you defending him for?” Hank took his eyes off the road to glare at Connor.

“I’m not defending him. Eyes forward, please.”

Hank did as Connor asked. “Aren’t you mad?”

“No,” said Connor.

“Why not?”

Hank’s tone became increasingly exasperated, and for the smallest of moments, Connor could not blame him. Connor did not have an answer. The strain it had put on his body had distracted him from all else. He felt no sadness or anger, and when Connor looked back on it, the stream of his memories, the only emotion he could find was a thin line of dread. A warning. He did not want to examine it further.

“I don’t know,” Connor said.

A heavy silence hung low in the car. Hank left the radio off. Traffic slowed as the weather worsened.

Hank spoke after they turned a corner, a long stretch of road before them.

“Did you--” He stopped himself. He licked his teeth. “When you saw them, did you-- I don’t know, feel…”

Hank trailed off. Connor waited for the man to finish his question, but it never came. He turned to face Hank, fully. Hank’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel.

“Lieutenant?”

“Nothing,” said Hank. He kept his eyes straight ahead. His expression was tight. “Nevermind.”

Connor watched him for a little while longer. He felt no need to pursue Hank’s abandoned thought, having already explained what happened to the best of his ability; and so he left it alone, letting silence settle in once more. Connor turned to look out the window, watching droplets of rain stream together against the glass.

 

    **Jul 27th, 2039**

 

“That’s too much,” Hank said.

“It only seems that way because your hair is wet,” Connor assured him. “It’ll be fine.”

They met eyes in the mirror of Hank’s bathroom. The yellow of the bathroom tiles were as unpleasant as ever, but at least they were kept clean by Connor, no longer caked with grime. The sticky notes that had lined the edge of the mirror had since been removed by Hank, weeks ago.

“Hm,” Hank grunted at him.

“You let it go for too long,” said Connor.

“I can cut my own damn hair.”

“You can,” Connor agreed. “But you’re too haphazard with it. It’s sloppy and uneven.”

“Who gives a shit?”

 _“You_ should, Lieutenant. No one wants to be taken care of by an officer that can’t even take care of himself.”

Hank did not argue with that, and the acquiescence implied by his silence filled Connor with a subtle sense of vindication. Connor combed Hank’s hair and snipped off the ends near Hank’s right cheek. Even damp as it was, Hank’s hair was unruly and thick. Cutting hair was even more removed from Connor’s main functions than food preparation, but it was not a terribly difficult task, and Hank’s own lack of standards made it all the easier.

“Of all the fucking things,” Hank began after a minute had passed. _“This_ is what you chose to do?”

Connor raised an eyebrow at Hank as he looked into the mirror. “Yes,” he said.

Hank had been in a betting mood the night before. The Detroit Tigers were not playing but it was a game night all the same, and Hank was quite certain The Athletics would not be able to close a three point gap in the last two innings. Connor had taken him up on the bet - the winner’s reward being whatever their heart desired. That Hank had accepted such a condition was proof that he had been assured of his victory.

It was not a _bad_ feeling, taking that from him.

“What did you think I was going to ask for?” Connor asked.

“I don’t fucking know,” said Hank. He snorted. “Something a bit more exciting. Figured maybe you’d want to go to Disney World, or some shit.”

Hank’s response was unexpected. Connor could feel the synapses in his brain rushing to pull an appropriate answer from the aether.

“I’m not a child, Lieutenant.”

“Neither am I, but I had a blast when we went.”

Hank said it freely. The implication in that ‘we’ was obvious enough, and for the briefest of moments Connor was not sure how to handle it. Hank’s tone was brusque, as it had been since Connor got him to sit still in the bathroom, but the simplicity in his words softened Hank’s humor in a way Connor did not expect. Hank’s heart and breathing remained steady and Connor watched his reflection carefully, his expression unchanged.

“I’m sure you did,” said Connor, eventually. He responded to Hank’s ease with his own. “I don’t think winning a bet over a game of baseball would warrant a trip to Disney World, however.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s excessive,” Connor said. He was quite sure Hank already knew that, and so he kept his tone pleasant. “It isn’t cheap to go, even for a weekend.”

“So what? I can get the money, it’s not like I have any expensive hobbies.”

“Besides drinking,” Connor corrected.

“Besides drinking,” Hank agreed. He looked at Connor in the mirror. Hank smiled, wry and cocky, and there was something in his eyes - a spark of life, piercing, but lacking mirth. A concession, and a challenge.

Connor looked away.

“Isn’t there anywhere else you’d like to go?”

Hank shrugged. Snippets of his hair slid off the towel that was wrapped around his shoulders and fell to the tiles below.

“Not really,” said Hank. “Never been big on traveling. I hate flying.”

“I see,” said Connor.

“We should go,” Hank declared, “to Disney World.”

Connor cocked his head to the side. He cut off a section of Hank’s hair with more force than necessary, the _snip_ of the scissors resounding against the bathroom walls.

“I figured it would be up to me. I did win the bet, after all,” said Connor, quiet but firm.

“We’re doing your shit right now, aren’t we?”

Connor released a section of Hank’s hair and stopped what he was doing. He put his hands on the back of the chair in which Hank sat, scissors closed. Connor went very still and they looked at each other in the mirror.

“Are you really serious about going to Disney World?” Connor asked.

Hank considered. He exhaled through his nose, his nostrils flaring. “Yeah. I am.”

As Connor looked at Hank’s reflection, so too could he see his own. His eyebrows were raised and his mouth sloped upwards to the right. Hank mimicked Connor’s expression, but slowly, lazily, with far more life in it. Amusement was clear in his features, Connor’s facial recognition software filing it away clean and neat, and it was through Hank that he was able to realize his own amusement - at Hank’s stubbornness, at his sudden and silly desire. It was something that would usually set Connor on edge, fill him with an undercurrent of irritation; but it was absent now, replaced with a quick compression of his chest, as if forcing the thirum out of his pump and veins. It left him light. Weightless.

“Alright,” said Connor. “We’ll go.”

“Jesus. Just like that?”

Thirium rushed back into Connor’s chest yet the buoyancy spread further throughout his body until it felt ready to burst. It was not an unpleasant feeling. It felt as if he were on the edge of something, teetering, awaiting a release, a discovery. It never came.

Connor straightened up and went back to work on Hank’s hair, breaking their eye contact.

“Just like that,” Connor repeated. “I’ll leave the planning and fundraising to you. As well as convincing Captain Fowler to give you time off.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, huh?” Hank laughed, his shoulders shaking with amusement. Connor paused, to be sure the next cut would not be ruined. “Fine, fine. I’ll do it, watch me, just so I can lord it over you.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Connor.

The response skipped straight to the forefront of his options and the aplomb with which he said it surprised him. It was just shy of inappropriate, nearly too familiar, but Hank did not seem to mind, let alone notice, and so Connor did not apologize for it.

Connor traded the scissors for a cheap plastic comb. He ran it through Hank’s hair, slowly, gently, moving from the right side of his face and around. Hank closed his eyes and fell silent and stayed very still, which made Connor’s job all the more manageable. Connor leaned close as he worked, measuring the uniformity of Hank’s hair. The ends were all within two millimeters of each other which was the best that could be hoped for. Anything more exact would require more precise tools.

Connor ran the comb through Hank’s hair a few more times before pulling away. Hank sighed. He shifted in his seat, the aging chair creaking as it moved.

“Do that some more,” said Hank. His voice was low, demanding, thick with something Connor could not recognize.

Connor did not protest, nor question, and went right back to it. He followed the trails left by the comb with his other hand, smoothing Hank’s hair with his palm, a ghost of a touch. It was a simple routine to which Connor did not have to pay much attention, and so he watched Hank instead. His breathing was even save the occasional hitch and his heart beat steady and strong against his chest. The mirror showed his face, relaxed, eyes still closed, his lips parted at the center.

“Does this feel good?” Connor asked, voice quiet, careful to not disturb Hank’s repose overmuch.

“Yeah,” Hank muttered. There was a rough texture to that simple utterance, drawn long in his throat. He licked his lips.

Connor said nothing, and continued his ministrations. He combed down the back of Hank’s head, gentle and slow. The plastic teeth brushed against his neck, skin pulled tight over his spine, and Hank sucked in a sharp breath. Connor watched as the hairs on his arms stood on end.

“I’ve--” Hank started. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never met anyone who hates getting their hair cut. It’s… relaxing. Feels nice.”

“You should get it done more often, then,” said Connor.

“Too much of a pain in the ass,” said Hank. He exhaled slowly. “Driving, paying for it - shit’s tiresome, even if it’s nice. Rather just do it myself.”

“I can do it for you, from now on,” said Connor. “If you’d like.” He offered it freely. He was not programmed for it by any means, but Hank’s calm filled Connor with his own sense of satisfaction, and not once did he think of it as a means to keep Hank’s foul moods at bay. Even if it would. It would, but--

Hank opened his eyes and stared at the sink. He straightened up, his head having bowed in relaxation.

“...Sure,” he said, after a pregnant pause. He licked his lips again. They were noticeably chapped. “Yeah.”

The labor of his assent contrasted sharply with the ease of Connor’s offer. It made Connor hesitate, if only for a moment, the comb halting just behind Hank’s ear.

“You can stop now,” said Hank, and Connor did, setting the comb aside. Connor let his hands rest at his sides, now that he had nothing to do.

“What do you think?” Connor asked.

Hank looked at his reflection, turned his head to the left, then to the right. “It’s too short.”

“It only seems that way because it had gotten too long.”

Hank pulled at his hair, drawing it up, as if trying to tie it back as he sometimes did. He managed very little, hindered by the new length of his hair and his thick fingers.

“Still too short.”

Connor moved Hank’s hands out of the way before reaching to the front of his face. He cupped Hank’s forehead and pulled his hair back, a sloppy imitation of Connor’s own hairstyle.

“You could slick it back, like this. For a cleaner look.”

Hank snorted, and the light that had been in his eyes minutes ago returned. “I’m not ready for that. I’ll leave the immaculate look to you, yeah?”

Connor released Hank’s hair and pulled away. It fell about his face, messy and damp. Hank cleared his face of stray strands and mussed his hair with both hands, fingers scrubbing at his scalp, ruining the neatness of Connor’s work.

“If you say so, Lieutenant.”

Connor removed the towel from Hank’s shoulders and funneled his hair clippings into the trash. Those that remained on the floor he would vacuum once Hank left. The grout between the tiles was uneven and difficult to clean, and it was high time for them to be replaced. Their color offended even Connor.

“You--” said Hank. He cut himself off and rose to his feet.

Connor turned to face him. He folded the towel and held it close. He waited for Hank, who ran a hand over his beard, pulling at it, then fiddled with the ends of his hair, not yet used to its length.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Hank continued. “When it’s just the two of us. Just ‘Hank’ is fine.”

Hank looked at him, directly, or so it seemed at first, but Connor could tell. In actuality his gaze was everywhere else - Connor’s eyebrows, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose - anywhere but his eyes. There was a nervous quality about Hank, despite his good posture, despite the hard lines of his frame that dwarfed even Connor’s height. Despite the confidence with which he spoke.

“It’s a little familiar,” said Connor, matter-of-fact.

“You had no trouble doing it before.”

And… that was true. It had been a month since he last did so. Connor could recall it with perfect clarity, and the cursory glance over that fact did not fill him with the now intimate sense of foreboding that came with his memories of that time. That he had been so familiar with Hank for so long filled him with shame, a flash of heat that made his fingertips dig into the towel. Connor thought on why he had called him as such, but he did not have an answer. Hank had never asked him to do so before. He searched for a reason, tugged for any thread that might tell him why, going back as far as November of 2038, yet he could find no reasoning, no change logs, no code that had been altered by himself or otherwise. Connor simply called him Lieutenant one day, and Hank the next.

“That’s true,” said Connor, because what else could he say? He frowned, ever so slightly, his lips parting, his LED circling to yellow for a single second. It was truly pathetic, to not have an answer, if only for his own sake. To not know himself. Something so rudimentary. So simple. He thought of Richard, and the towel beneath his hands.

“Is that a yes?”

Connor closed his mouth. Hank still did not want to look at him directly, and instead feigned interest in a discolored tile.

“That depends,” said Connor. “On how attached you are to the idea of Disney World.”

 _That_ got Hank’s attention, his eyebrow raising. “Yeah, nice try, asshole. Think I’ll take both.”

And before Connor could respond, Hank was already reaching out, palm heavy atop Connor’s head and this, this was familiar, was becoming as such, as much as the dread his memories brought him now. It was more familiar than himself, at times, and it stung with comfort, wrong as it was.

Hank tousled his hair, back and forth, the force of it moving Connor beneath his arm. He did not relent, no end in sight.

“Lieutenant,” said Connor, adding just enough stringency to his voice, in the hopes he would be taken seriously.

_“Hank.”_

Connor hesitated.

“...Hank,” he said.

And that was enough. Hank pulled away, leaving Connor’s hair entirely unkempt. He stepped to the door of the bathroom and pointed at Connor, a smile on his face, teetering between confidence and something else. Something weak, and unsure.

“Now we match.”

 

    **Jul 30th, 2039**

 

Half past nine in the morning was very early for Hank, which was nothing new. He reclined in his desk chair, arms folded, slack-jawed. He wore a pair of reading glasses, on which he had taped two cut-outs of a pair of eyes he had drawn and colored himself - and quite poorly, at that. It was a trick that might dupe a human from a distance, but Hank’s posture was not fooling anyone. A line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth and into his beard.

It was only a matter of time before Hank began snoring and the rest of the station would take note (or _openly_ take note, at the very least), and though it might have been good and partnerly of Connor to wake him before it came to that, Connor was in no rush to do so. Instead, he rose from his seat and headed to the break room. Coffee might do the trick, though Hank was not so dependant on caffeine when compared to other notable addicts, like Gavin, and Tina. A good thing, to be sure - it wasn’t exactly healthy.

Not that Connor minded unhealthy very much. Perhaps a little. Somewhat.

It was not his highest priority, but it was not something to be ignored entirely, either.

Within the break room, Gavin and Richard stood at the table closest to the television. Jeffrey stood across from them, and the two humans talked over a nearly empty box of donuts Ben was kind enough to bring in.

Connor headed straight to the coffee machine. It was efficient and less than a year old, but a week ago it had taken on a buzzing noise that annoyed half the department and frightened the rest. Connor was not equipped to identify the exact problem, but he knew enough to tell it was harmless; yet a reason to convey this information had not yet presented itself, and so it remained Connor’s little secret.

As he watched the mug fill, a voice cut into his head, a wire-thin tug at the back of his skull. It did not ask permission.

_“Won’t you come over, Connor?”_

Connor frowned at the coffee machine.

 _“I’m getting coffee for Lieutenant Anderson,”_ he replied. As if it wasn’t obvious.

_“Shouldn’t he be sleeping, at this hour?”_

Though his tone was even, controlled, Connor knew better. An insult was implied in Richard’s voice, a cutting gibe. Connor did not respond. The coffee finished and he added a single packet of sugar to it, stirring it with a thin red straw.

 _“Please,”_ Richard continued. _“If only for a few minutes.”_

Connor wondered what possible cause Richard could have in inviting him over. The two of them could converse from anywhere in the station - not that Connor wanted to. Still, the coffee was too hot for Hank to drink, and avoiding Richard would accomplish little. Connor turned around, and headed to the table where the three stood, and came to stand beside Richard.

Jeffrey looked up as Connor approached, his usual scowl neither lessening nor deepening at the sight of him.

“Connor, grab a donut for Hank if you want. They’ll all be gone when he wakes up in two fucking hours,” said Jeffrey.

“I will,” said Connor. “Thank you, Captain.”

Gavin did not spare Connor a glance, for which he was glad. Richard smiled at him, his head turning only as much as necessary to show Connor his face. He did not move otherwise.

“Their records were a complete fucking mess,” said Gavin, to Jeffrey, likely in regards to his Russian mob case. “But from what I could find, they must have had hundreds of pounds of it. Before someone came and laid them out and stole all their shit.”

 _“I was the one who read those records,”_ said Richard, his voice flat. _“Detective Reed can barely read English, let alone Russian.”_

_“That’s not very generous of you.”_

_“I’m only ever honest.”_

“I’m less concerned with their stolen thirium and ice than I am with whoever killed them and lined them all out on the fucking street,” said Jeffrey. He became increasingly irate as he spoke, as he was wont to do.

“I keep saying,” said Gavin. “If we can find where all that went, we’ll find who killed them - obviously it’s the same fucking people, Jeffrey. It’s not like we have any other goddamn leads.”

 _“I haven’t had the chance to properly apologize for my actions on the 25th,”_ said Richard. He looked between Gavin and Jeffrey, pretending to appear interested in their conversation. At least, that was how it seemed to Connor. A high-and-mighty air. Difficult to reach. _“Allow me to do so.”_

As far as apologies went, it was, quite frankly, horrible. In fact, Connor would be hard pressed to consider it an apology at all - more a _suggestion_ of an apology than anything else. The realization that Connor could have done far better, were he in Richard’s place, filled him with gratification; it ran through his wires and settled in his ports, hiccups of energy that tittered in excitement. Connor glanced at Richard, careful, so as to not hint towards their private conversation. He did not smile, or frown, but his sudden good humor led him to answer easily.

 _“It’s fine,”_ was all Connor had to say in response.

It was. It was fine. He did not think about it anymore. His own body would not allow it, filling him with a sneaking unease that would be enough to make him ill, if he were human. Yet there was nothing wrong with him, as far as Connor could tell. His daily diagnostics always came back normal.

 _“I’m glad to hear it,”_ said Richard. He spoke as if he expected Connor’s answer, as if it were the only possible outcome, but Connor could not find it within himself to be irritated, given the quality of Richard’s apology.

“So?” Jeffrey started. His measured tone still managed to fill the room. “Where the hell do you think it all went?”

Gavin tilted his head. His posture was very poor. “No fucking way would anyone be able to get it to Canada these days. They’re either selling the thirium or using it to make more red ice. No way they’re sitting on it.”

 _“Have you managed to make any headway on your case?”_ Connor asked.

 _“Unfortunately, no,”_ said Richard. _“I wasn’t here to examine the crime scene in its original state. Given what I’ve found so far, it was either the work of rank amateurs with incredible amounts of luck, or consummate professionals.”_ He paused. _“What little credit I can give him, Detective Reed is likely correct in his assumption that the Russian’s stolen product remains in the city.”_

 _“I’m sure you’ll find something soon,”_ said Connor. A surge of pride at Richard’s lack of perfection was cut short by the realization that his own position was not much better. Connor pursed his lips, and could feel Richard side-eyeing him, drilling into his temple.

 _“I’m sure I will,”_ he said. _“I might’ve already, were I not so beleaguered.”_

Emotion rang clear in Richard’s tone, for the first time since Connor had met him. A caustic cut to his words, bitterness, perhaps made all the worse after the high of his hiring.

“So you’re just looking for it in smaller quantities,” said Jeffrey. “In its stolen state or whatever the fuck they’re doing with it.”

“Right,” said Gavin.

Jeffrey straightened up, cocking his head to the side. “You know, I wouldn’t rule out Canada. Still hear about crackheads trying to get stuff up there with shit shoved up their ass, but you know some always slip through the cracks - no pun intended. They could even use androids for that too, now that they’ve started letting them over the border.”

“Up their ass? Not with androids they fucking can’t.” Gavin frowned. “Put anything up there - assuming the tin can in question has one to begin with - and the sensors they’ve got would start lubing up. Whatever you put in there would just slide out eventually.”

Gavin motioned with his hands in an obscene gesture, and made a noise with his mouth for good measure. _Schlorp._ It was foul, but effective. Or, effective at eliciting a response.

Richard raised his eyebrows. Jeffrey squinted at him.

“How the _fuck_ do you know that, Reed?”

Realizing the potential exposure of his most shameful habits, Gavin went very still. He stuttered.

“Uh. Fuck, you know--”

It was not as if Gavin was entirely _wrong._ He just wasn’t entirely right, either. Such a basic reaction could easily be turned off by any android in control of their own faculties. Gavin had simply seen too much porn to think, let alone know, otherwise. Yet even knowing that much would be unusual for the population that never bothered themselves with androids, and so Jeffrey’s alarm was warranted indeed.

Knowing Gavin’s secret, Connor saw an opportunity. It was not an idea borne from kindness, or anything remotely similar. Connor knew being agreeable with Gavin was a sure way to dampen their interactions, and so aiding him in a time of need might act as insurance against further harassment - for himself, and Hank. Connor spoke up, his voice calm, more for Jeffrey’s sake than anything else.

“I explained as much to Detective Reed several months ago,” said Connor. “Regarding a case that had been using androids to smuggle prescription medication out of a manufacturing plant. It is possible for some androids to have enough room for such things in their abdominal and thoracic cavities, so there would be no need for them to use their anal or--”

Jeffrey waved a hand. “I got it, I got it, Jesus Christ! Just thinking about it is going to make me fucking sick. Let me digest my goddamned donuts, for the love of God.”

Connor glanced at Gavin. Were he anyone other than himself, he might’ve smiled back, or at least make some sort of acknowledgement of Connor’s helpful lie, but instead he merely scowled. A petulant pout if ever there was one. A great success.

Connor took a single plain donut for Hank, and excused himself.

 

-

 

Nearing noon, Hank had not shed enough of his fatigue to begin working in earnest, but he was awake, which was preferable to the alternative. His coffee mug sat empty on his desk, and the plain donut remained untouched (‘What the fuck is the point of a plain donut,’ he had said).

Connor browsed through some of Hank’s more recent reports to check for any discrepancies. There were several. He did so without Hank’s knowledge, as Connor was sure his assistance would be taken as an affront - even if Hank knew it was necessary. Hank was well aware of his own faults, for better or for worse.

Though Connor was not watching him closely, he could see Hank in his peripheral: idle in his chair, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, his brow furrowed. Hank had been attempting to call someone for the past three minutes, but outside of a few angry messages, he had been unsuccessful. He grew impatient after another minute of dialing and waiting, and tossed the phone to his desk, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Is something the matter, Lieutenant?” asked Connor, without looking up.

“Fucking Timmy Burns won’t answer his goddamn phone. It’s been over a week now.”

Yes, the man he and Nancy had spoken about. He had been arrested multiple times, for drug possession and other minor crimes, and so Timmy fit right in with many of Hank’s acquaintances.

“I didn’t know you were trying to contact him,” said Connor.

It stung, a little. A lance of stress that he could feel in his nose. Even now Hank was holding onto the idea that there was some connection between such random kidnappings. Connor still had his doubts, which was only logical. There was no strong evidence to suggest a link between them. That was no reason for Hank to keep his thoughts to himself, however, and Connor wondered what he had done to be so untrustworthy, so unworthy, all of a sudden. His stress traveled up to his brow, and settled there.

“Either Nancy gave me a bunk number,” said Hank. “Or he’s avoiding me.”

“I doubt he has your personal number. You never answer calls from numbers you don’t recognize, right?”

Hank scowled at Connor from across their desks. “Don’t compare me to that fucking lowlife.”

That was far from Connor’s intention, but he did not argue. Hank turned to Ben, who pored over a magazine at his desk.

“Hey Ben, you ever hear from Timmy Burns?”

“Can’t say that I have,” said Ben, while he shook his head. “His mom still sends me Christmas cards every year, though.”

“You think she would know how to reach him?”

“She disowned him about a decade ago. You know how she is. Don’t you remember?”

“No, no I do not.”

“I can see about his current address and whatever, if you want.”

Hank sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He did that often now, still not used to its length, however slight the difference was.

“Don’t bother,” said Hank. “Timmy has a habit of showing up at the worst possible times. I’m sure I’ll see his ugly rat face soon enough, whether I like it or not.”

 

    **Aug 3rd, 2039**

 

July had seen a 21% increase in Hank’s alcohol consumption.

It would be more alarming if it wasn’t for the kindness Hank still bore, unnatural and unwarranted. Hank would smile and laugh and touch Connor like anything. A hand on his shoulder. Fingers in his hair. Hank’s bad moods were now exclusive to the privacy of his room, and if Connor did not clean, did not find so many empty bottles within, he might’ve remained ignorant. Connor knew, and he wondered if Hank did, too.

It was growing late when Hank sat at the kitchen table, whiskey in hand; and even with his back turned as he cleaned, Connor could feel the beginnings of a foul mood. He looked over his shoulder. Hank stared at the table, boring holes into cheap wood, his shoulders hunched forward. The day had passed without incident but as the hours grew long, so too did a black cloud gather and hang heavy over Hank.

Connor wanted to reach out and touch it.

He wanted to ask Hank, to hear what was bothering him so, what pushed him to drink as if their time together had amounted to nothing.

Yet Hank was not one for honesty when it came to his own feelings, and so Connor remained silent. In that silence, he searched for a reason, for Hank’s deepening dejection. Connor thought on the way Hank’s heart rate rose, when he lied about the refrigerator (Connor had checked, more than once, it was fine, it had been fine). The shape of his mouth after a simple _‘Oh,’_ an emotion on his face Connor could not identify, even after turning it over so many times. The anger that morphed to melancholy after Richard seized his memories.

The nervous fear Connor felt when he thought too deeply about those memories, about his own self.

How had they arrived at this point?

Connor could not find an answer. He couldn’t then, and he couldn’t now, and the sense that perhaps he was not supposed to crept into his mind and settled in his nerves, like an order to halt, stopping him cold.

He thought of it no further. He folded the dishcloth in his hands and put it away, and took a single step towards the table.

“Hank,” said Connor, quietly.

Hank _jumped,_ shooting upright in his seat with enough force that his bottle threatened to spill over. His reaction was so sudden that it surprised even Connor, his LED going yellow as he recoiled from it. Hank looked up at him, mouth open, eyes wide; and there was something something something in his face that was so raw and nostalgic, but Connor could not find the meaning behind it, he could not grasp it, and so he let it pass as the image wrapped itself around his heart and was pumped piece by piece into his body.

Hank licked his lips. “You surprised me.”

That much was obvious.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Connor looked pointedly at the bottle, and Hank relaxed.

“Oh. Yeah. You’re probably right.” Hank stood and smiled at Connor, a smile so weak and pathetic that Connor had to wonder why he bothered at all. There was a listlessness to him, that black cloud weighing so heavily upon his shoulders it seemed to sap him of all strength.

Hank had strength enough to grip the neck of the whiskey bottle however, slow and brazen, as if he was assured Connor would not stop him as he retreated into the hall, liquor in tow. Perhaps it was a sure thing, because Hank was right - Connor did not stop him. The familiar task that begged him to, to stop Hank, appeared once more. It never truly went away, but by now it was only white noise to Connor, a routine alert he brushed aside and ignored. Connor only watched Hank, Hank and his bottle, and pretended not to notice.

 

    **Aug 8th, 2039**

 

A call came in for them at two o’clock in the morning. Fowler had put them on the night shift all week, as a bizarre form of punishment for Hank’s tendency to sleep at work in the early mornings. They drove out to a run-down apartment building on the outskirts of the city. The neighborhood was decidedly shabby, the streets lined with derelict homes and boarded up windows. The only signs of life were a few lit-up windows, and the emergency lights of a single police car.

The apartment building in question was home to a number of androids. It appeared abandoned on the outside, but the electricity and water was still on, and the inside was kept clean. The caller lived on the second floor, in the room at the front of the building. It was a YK700 model, named Sara. She lived with an HK500 that looked after her. April (the HK500) worked part-time at a convenience store several blocks away, and it was when Sara stood vigil by the window waiting for April to return from a long shift, that she witnessed her abduction.

“She was about to cross the street,” said Sara.

She sat across from Hank, the both of them occupying mismatched chairs. Hank leaned his forearms on his knees and looked troubled, far more so than he had with Molly Caldwell, and Connor would have expected no less. It was not often that they had to deal with children, but when they did, Hank’s natural softness towards them combined in truly stunning displays of sympathy. If Connor did not know any better, he might have thought it was exaggerated; but it was not, and it was enough to make him look away. Connor surveyed the sparse apartment as Hank spoke with her, but found nothing of interest. He looked out the window to where the abduction occurred, which was equally sparse. The only sign that anything had happened were the skid marks left on the street from the vehicle that had made off with April. Two officers took photographs of the tire marks for good measure, but it was hardly needed, with Connor there.

“And she was right on schedule?” Hank asked.

Sara nodded. “She’s never late,” she said. “She promised me.”

Hank smiled at her. It was exceedingly gentle. “Were you able to see who grabbed her?”

“I couldn’t see their faces.”

“How many of them were there? Do you remember?”

“Just two,” said Sara. She paused. “That I could see.” Something wavered in her voice and her eyebrows were drawn, as if on the verge of tears. Her LED, yet unremoved, remained a serene blue. She was doing very well, and Connor could see that Hank noticed too, his smile faltering in the face of her bravery.

“And the car? Could you try describing that to me?”

“It was black. I couldn’t see through the windows. The tires were really big, and it had those doors that um, slide open.” Sara took in a deep, shuddering breath, and held it for a while. Connor watched her from across the room. She was trying not to cry.

“You’ll find April, right?” Sara asked. “I don’t want her to go away.”

“We will,” said Hank, a little too quickly. “We will, for sure.”

It was a promise he had no guarantee of keeping. It was an easy, irresponsible assurance, and so very, very… Hank. Connor felt his fingers twitch. A tightening in his veins, his thirium pump quickening its pace. Once more he felt on the edge of something. A string drawn too tight, ready to snap. Connor wanted to break it himself, to force out whatever it was, but for all his anxiousness, nothing changed.

He did not know what to do. He opened his mouth, his chest compressing.

“Lieutenant,” Connor called out, and as he expected, Hank snapped to attention. He rose to his feet, and gave Sara a pat on her head, careful and imprudent. The tension Connor felt dissolved as Hank approached him.

“What is it? Did you find anything?”

“No,” said Connor. “I was wondering if you’d allow me to question Sara.”

Hank furrowed his brow. “I mean, sure. But why?”

“Child models lack the protocols that would allow them to relay visual information in a way that would be useful to an investigation,” Connor explained. Not well enough, apparently, the confusion on Hank’s face growing as he nodded along in feigned understanding. “If she would allow it, I can view what she witnessed myself - and with any luck find something useful.”

“What she witnessed,” Hank repeated. “You mean like, watching her memory of it, or whatever the fuck?”

“Correct.”

Hank frowned, and considered. His body went tense, and Connor could very well guess as to what was giving him pause.

“Isn’t that what happened to you? When that asshole… you know.”

It was as he thought. Connor figured that was what Hank would get caught up in. His reaction to Richard’s intrusion had been unsurprising, but unwarranted - but even unwarranted as it was, it did not _annoy_ Connor, as it usually might. That Hank was still thinking about it, two weeks later, was concerning, however. Connor had explained what happened thoroughly, and was sure to stress just how little it affected him in the long term, how easy it was to get over; but Hank’s comprehension was not as good as Connor had hoped for. Connor had not been faulty in his explanation. Hank’s misunderstanding was entirely his own fault, the human’s temperament, his stubbornness, his prejudices - always clouding his judgement. So quick was he to let his emotions color his perceptions, and often to his detriment.

There was little Connor could say to sway him, when Hank was like this. He clenched his jaw.

“The goal is similar,” said Connor, quietly. He tried to keep his tone educational. “The process will be different, however. I only need that one small moment, not her entire history.”

Hank scowled at him. “No way. I saw what happened last time - I don’t want you to fucking traumatize her.”

The implication in his words was not lost on Connor. “I was not _traumatized.”_

“Oh yeah? Good for you,” said Hank. There was a vitriol to his tone that belied his defensiveness. It was always like this, with him. “She’s just a goddamn kid, Connor. I’m not taking that chance.”

In some small part of him, Connor wished he could summon the callousness to say ‘she isn’t human, Lieutenant.’ That would surely set him off, to the point where he might storm out and allow Connor to do as he pleased. He swallowed the thought.

“As I said, I’ll ask her for permission,” said Connor. He put a chill to his voice, a coldness to combat Hank’s heat. Hank did not know what it was like. He was not an android. “It’s not something I expect you to understand, but it won’t be as bad as whatever it is you’re imagining.”

Hank glared at him. “Fuck you.”

“It would be quick, and painless.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“Are you really going to allow your personal hang-ups to get in the way of this investigation?”

Connor could tell how that angered Hank, the sudden rise in his body temperature, blood coloring his cheeks; but they both knew Connor was right, and so instead of arguing, Hank looked away. Connor tilted his head, tracking the man’s movements as he did so.

“Do you not trust me, Lieutenant?”

That seemed to do the trick.

Connor watched as Hank straightened up, still refusing to meet his gaze. There was a twitch in his brow, a spark of something in his eyes. He looked to Sara, his lips pursing into an uncomfortable frown, and nodded once.

“Make it quick,” he said, his voice low.

“Got it.”

Connor went over to sit across from Sara, in the chair Hank had occupied. She held a stuffed animal in her lap, an orange cat, which appeared well-cared for despite showing signs of heavy use. Hank retreated to the front of the apartment, heading to the front door until he was out of sight. Sara raised her head to look at Connor and watched his LED spin blue for longer than was polite.

“Hello, Sara,” said Connor. He extended his hand towards her, palm upturned. The skin upon it retracted quickly, showing stark white beneath. “I was wondering if you would be willing to show me what you saw earlier?”

Sara looked between Connor and his hand. There was a clear understanding in her eyes, at what Connor was asking for, yet she hesitated. “Will it hurt?” she asked.

“No, it won’t hurt,” said Connor. He chanced a small smile, but Sara did not smile back, and so it was probably not very good. It was difficult for his systems to tell. “It will be uncomfortable, but only for a second.”

Sara stared into his hand. Her stress level was quite high, from what Connor could tell, but it did not show on her features. She kicked her feet back and forth, but otherwise remained still, impassive. Her deviancy had likely happened long before Markus appeared.

Connor furled his fingers to his palm. “Would you prefer not to?”

His coding was not built to allow any sort of pressure on children - but child model _androids_ were not considered as such, in Connor’s systems. They were simply androids. If they had something he needed, he could take it without asking. Yet he could turn that side of him away now, and even though the prospect of Sara’s refusal struck hard with frustration, he would not force it. He thought of Richard, and Hank. He thought of Sara, and the memory of an intrusion.

“...Will it help find April?” Sara asked, her voice small.

Connor paused. He did his very best to look reassuring. “I believe so, yes.”

Sara said nothing more. She reached out one hand and placed it gingerly in Connor’s palm, who extended his fingers to meet her wrist. Her skin retracted very slowly, as was common in child models, but Connor did not need very much. They connected but he stopped it short, a dam of his own choosing, halting any flow of information.

“Are you ready?” Connor asked.

Sara nodded. Connor removed the barrier between them, and with quick, surgical precision, headed straight for her memory bank. Child models had many components to them, but they were relatively simple by design, and so it was no trouble at all to find what he needed. Connor skimmed the surface of her data, a sieve dipping only for a moment into shallow waters, and he pulled away with a thin film that was only the last hour and a half of Sara’s memory.

It took only a second, as he promised. Connor pulled away.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Mhm.” Her expression was drawn tight, more so than before. Her stress had risen considerably, but it began to ebb away almost immediately. She hugged her stuffed cat close to her chest.

Connor played the memory he took in his mind, scanning its entirety in an instant. He watched from the window as a black van intercepted April as she approached the street. Two men forced her within - and though he could not see their faces, their height and weight could be useful enough. Most of all, the license plate on the back of the van shone clear in the dark. That was more than what Connor could have asked for. He tucked the recording away, for later use.

“I’m going to speak with Lieutenant Anderson for a moment,” said Connor. “Will you wait here?”

“Okay,” said Sara.

Connor rose and went to the front of the apartment, where he found Hank leaning against a counter that seperated the kitchen from the hall. He looked up as Connor approached, melancholy on his features. Leaving Hank alone with his thoughts tended to result in this, but it was deeper than usual, hanging over his shoulders in a near-tangible gloom. Hank pushed off the counter as Connor approached, but did not turn to face him fully.

“How’d it go,” said Hank.

“Good,” said Connor. “I was able to find what I needed.” He paused. “She’s doing well.”

Hank nodded absently. He stared at a piece of wallpaper that had begun to peel. There was no doubt, no question in his expression that Connor could read, but the good news did nothing to improve his mood. There was a faraway look in his eyes that had not been there before.

Something within Connor tore itself open. A wall of code that dispersed at the center, a void forming within, filled with nothing other than the desire to reach out to Hank, to dispel his unease, his worry, his agitation. A hand on his shoulder, on his arm, on his neck. Anything, anything that might help. From the center of his plastic bones to the expanse of his skin, the need of it pulled at him, a constant pulse of electricity that pushed and pushed and pushed, that begged him to take action. It pounded against the inner walls of his frame, strong enough that it threatened to move him.

Yet Connor did not move. He twitched with the force of it. His toes, his fingers, his mouth. As unexpected as the sensation was, Connor was not so quick to be taken by it. He stalled as he dismissed each prompt for movement, each error that appeared from conflicting processes, slowly tearing down the vast wall of them. Connor opened his mouth to speak but no words came, so choked was he with rejecting the wave of this one command that all else remained a shadow of a thought. Even as he fought it, the void that had opened within him still pulled forward, a hand of code that felt as if it would burst physically from his very body.

It all came to a halt as Hank snapped his fingers in front of Connor’s face.

“What the hell is up with you?”

How long had he been standing frozen like that? Mere seconds, if his internal clock was anything to go by, but it had been enough to catch Hank’s attention. Connor’s LED rest on yellow, which would be noticeable in its own right. Hank frowned at him but even overwhelmed as he was, Connor could identify the look in his face, the way his forehead creased.

Hank was concerned.

It shone through in his blue eyes. In his crossed arms, and the hunch of his shoulders.

The desire that threatened to tear forth from within Connor receded in an instant. His biocomponents relaxed and his processor cooled as it withdrew. As it did so, it left in its wake a single, transient sensation - a churning beneath his eyes, like two ill-fitted gears grinding against one another.

Connor took in a short breath. There was nothing wrong with his lungs yet it felt as if there was no room for air within them. He held the breath for a second longer, and the feeling passed.

“Nothing,” said Connor.

“Uh huh,” said Hank. His eyebrows furrowed in clear disbelief.

“I was reviewing the footage Sara gave me,” Connor lied.

There would be no harm in telling Hank the truth, but what truth was there to tell? Connor could not understand it himself. Hank seemed to buy into his lie, however, and so Connor considered it no further.

“Oh,” said Hank. “Anything useful?”

“Yes. We can review it at the station later.”

Hank groaned. As usual, his disdain for working late at night and into the early morning hindered his ethic.

“Yeah, great. Christ, I’m fucking beat,” said Hank. He sighed. “What are we going to do with the kid? We can’t leave her here, it’s not safe.”

Despite the headway made for androids in other areas, there were still holes, mostly when it came to guiding androids to the aid they might need. There were no agents ready in the field to represent them yet, no counsellors, no social workers. Perhaps it was largely due to the assumption that androids could find out as much on their own, but as usual, child models still slipped through the cracks.

“I know where to take her,” Connor said.

Hank nodded, not questioning him. Connor preferred that. “Can we take care of that first?”

Fatigue slackened Hank’s voice. No doubt it had crept up on him. It was as if hours had passed for Hank in the span of time it had taken Connor to question Sara. His heart rate was unsteady, his posture slouched.

Connor pressed his lips together, hard, then opened his mouth to speak.

“I can take care of it,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Hank asked through a yawn. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

“Meaning, I’ll take care of Sara, and file our report at the station,” said Connor. He paused. “You should go home and get some rest.”

Hank blinked, clearly bewildered at the suggestion. “What? Why?”

“It’s Captain Fowler’s birthday today. You’ll be expected at the party later tonight.”

“Oh, Jesus. I forgot about that shit.”

“I know. You haven’t gotten a gift for him yet, have you?”

“Uh, no,” said Hank, as he rubbed his chin. He looked away.

“You’ll have to do that before the party, then.”

“Yeah, I’ll pick up something simple on the way over.”

Connor tilted his head. “What did you have in mind?”

“Uh, Christ,” said Hank as he exhaled slowly. He lifted one hand from their crossed position and motioned aimlessly with it. “Fuck, I don’t know. Socks?”

“Socks,” Connor repeated.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a rather impersonal gift for someone you’ve known for so long.”

“Listen,” said Hank, voice stern. “As men get older, they tend to appreciate the simpler gifts. I’d be goddamned thrilled to get socks on _my_ birthday.”

 _But you are not Jeffrey Fowler,_ Connor wanted to say, but reminding Hank of that would do little to change his mind.

“What did you get him last year?” Connor asked instead.

Hank closed his eyes, his nose scrunching as he tried hard to remember. “A gift card.”

Connor expected as much. “To where?”

“Uh, Applebee's? Chili’s? I don’t fucking remember.”

“For how much?”

Hank opened his eyes and looked at Connor, his expression one of pure bewilderment. “...Fifty bucks? Jesus, what the hell is this? The third degree? Are you a fucking professional gift giver now?”

“My programming is broad enough to know that socks make a poor birthday present,” said Connor. He raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smirk.

Hank stood up straight as he returned Connor’s look. The fatigue in his face lessened. “A poor _birthday_ present,” said Hank. “So what, they would be fine on Christmas?”

“I believe socks would be more appropriate then, yes. So long as they are Christmas themed.”

“Christ, alright. What should I get him then, huh? A tie?”

“No.” Connor’s smirk fell into a slight frown. It was difficult for him to tell if Hank was being serious or not at times. “That would be even worse.”

Hank’s own smirk broke into a full smile, if only for a moment. “Right. Since you’re the expert, any ideas?”

Connor considered for a moment. “Did he get you a birthday present last year?”

“Tickets. Football season always starts around my birthday,” said Hank. He responded quickly, not having to search for an answer. He paused afterwards, however, and slowly raised a hand to point a finger at Connor. “I am _not_ buying him tickets. Jeffrey hates going to any indoor games, and one bad chili dog was enough to keep him out of Comerica forever.”

Connor looked to Hank’s hand, then back to him. He felt his face relax as he did so, his brow settling, his lips parting. It was a thoughtful gift, from Jeffrey, perhaps more so than Hank realized. Connor had not known Hank then, nearly a year past, but it was not difficult to guess what he had been like. The tickets had likely been as much an appropriate gift as they were a bid to get Hank out of the house, out of his own head. It would be easier to say with a gift, rather than say as much out loud. Both Jeffrey and Hank were alike, in that regard.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you do,” said Connor, quietly. “I just thought it might give you some ideas.”

Hank re-crossed his arms and shifted his weight. “Gotcha.”

“Sometimes the best gifts are things the recipient needs, rather than what they want.”

Hank snorted. “There are a lot of things Jeffrey _needs,_ but not anything money could buy.”

Hank smirked at his own quip, delighting in his cleverness. Connor exhaled a short breath through his nose, and ignored it.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something,” said Connor.

A thick silence came to rest between them. The hot air from his jest passed quickly, and Hank rubbed the back of his neck.

“...Yeah,” said Hank, after some time. His voice was low. “I’ll sleep on it.”

“Okay. I’ll finish up here, and call for a cab.”

“You sure?”

Connor inclined his head. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

Normally, such a statement would be enough to appease Hank, enough for him to accept it and go on his way - likely to avoid the chance of Connor changing his mind (which was entirely unprecedented). Yet Hank lingered still, uncertainty in his stance.

“It will be fine, Lieutenant,” Connor assured him. “You know I don’t get tired.”

“I know,” said Hank. His mouth moved several times, never settling in any one spot. He went still, then reached out with his left hand to Connor. Hank hesitated for half of a second, before cupping Connor’s shoulder, gently, and giving it a light jostle.

“I know,” he repeated. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hank withdrew his hand and shoved it in his pocket. He turned down the hallway to make his way out. The doorknob was loose, and so he had to fiddle with it in order to get it open. Hank muttered a curse as he did so, shook his head, and turned back to Connor.

“I’ll see you later, then?” Hank asked. It was a decidedly unnecessary question. Of course he would.

“Yes.” Connor was content to leave it at that, but a heavy fatigue wore itself into Hank’s features once more, and so he added, “Drive safe.”

Hank smiled at that, wry and worn, and shut the door behind him.

 

-

 

Open Hand Outreach was located just before the main bridge that led to CyberLife Tower. The real estate in the area was notoriously expensive, but Josh had managed to acquire a rather large building for next to nothing after a wealthy law firm abandoned the city during Markus’ protests. The building stood dark at four o’clock in the morning. Though androids did not need sleep, Josh had taken on human workers, and he was happy to take on human working hours as well. Connor knew Josh resided in the building, and when he arrived with Sara, he searched for the gentle hum of Josh’s signal and reached out to him, apologetic, but with a hint of urgency.

It did not take long for the lights to come on. Josh and another android came to the wide glass doors and unlocked them.

“Connor,” said Josh as he stepped out to greet him. He smiled. His kind features suited his personality well. Josh looked to Sara. “Who’s this?”

“Sara,” said Connor. He hesitated. “She needs a place to stay.”

Understanding bloomed in Josh’s face. He was terribly perceptive, but he did not make a show of it, and smiled at Sara. “Well, we have plenty of room,” he said.

Josh motioned to the android assistant beside him. She reached out to take Sara’s hand, who took it without question. She turned around and led Sara inside. Once they were inside, Sara looked over her shoulder and waved at Connor from behind the glass doors. Connor waved back.

“I take it something happened to her caretaker,” said Josh, once they were out of sight.

Indeed, quite perceptive. Connor nodded. “Yes. She was taken. Sara witnessed all of it.”

“I see. Better than killed,” Josh said, his voice appropriately solemn. “I’ve been hearing a lot about kidnappings, recently.”

“Do you know anything?”

Josh shook his head. “Nothing that you would find useful. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

There was a pause. Connor glanced to the building as he felt Josh study him. He was not overt about it, but there was something unnerving in his scrutiny.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find her?” Josh asked. “And the other ones.”

“I’ve alerted every active patrol to the vehicle and plate number that was responsible, tonight.” Connor frowned. “It hasn’t been that long since, so there is a possibility, but…” He trailed off, and allowed his non-answer to speak for itself. It felt wrong to say, to even consider such an outcome.

“I understand,” said Josh. Not even a human could doubt the sincerity in his voice. “No matter the outcome, we’ll take care of her. Don’t worry.”

Connor pursed his lips. _I’m not worried,_ he wanted to say, but couldn’t - not to Josh, and perhaps not even to himself. It felt false - nor did it feel true. A mess of contradiction settled on either side of Connor’s mind, behind his ears. He did not say anything, and so Josh sought to fill the silence.

“How have you been doing, Connor?”

“I’ve been well,” said Connor. Mentioning the inconsistencies of the past month would serve little purpose.

Josh smiled at him. “And Lieutenant Anderson, how is he?”

Of all the androids he knew personally, Josh was the only one Connor knew would ask after Hank with nothing other than goodwill. North had made her opinion of Connor living with him quite known, and though Markus said nothing of it, Connor was sure he had his doubts, for both public and private reasons. As for Simon, his thoughts were anyone’s guess. He had always been difficult to read.

That was not to say those from Jericho were not ungenerous, of course. They were more understanding than most, especially given the uniqueness of Connor’s situation. Yet the general android populace was quick to judge. Friendly personal relations between humans and androids were met with a great deal of suspicion, from both sides of the spectrum. Change would be slow.

“He is also well,” said Connor. Another half-truth that churned in his mind. Whether Josh believed it or not was impossible to tell. “Thank you.”

“Simon was asking after you the other day,” said Josh. “The both of you.”

Connor furrowed his brow. “Was he?”

It _had_ been some time since he last saw Simon. He thought of the expanse of nothingness after the last time Connor had seen him, at CyberLife Tower. Six hours gone. Reminding himself of it was enough to send a chill down his spine. He pushed it away.

“He was. He’s been busy lately, but I’m sure he’d be more than happy to make time to see you.”

Connor pursed his lips and glanced down to his feet. It was difficult to meet Josh’s eyes, all of a sudden. Connor reached into his pocket and felt for the coin within.

“Thank you, Josh,” said Connor. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

    **Aug 10th, 2039**

 

Both the Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs were playing very poorly. By the fourth inning Hank had entirely lost all interest. Connor found some appeal in the staggering statistical anomaly that was the amount of walks taken by both teams, but even he could admit to the sluggish pace of the game. Hank began to pay the commercials more mind than the game itself. The same insurance ad played twice in a row, and was followed by an advertisement for antifungal foot cream, the same brand Hank owned.

Hank sighed, loud and longing, as it finished.

“Wouldn’t need that if I had some fresh socks,” he mused, to no one in particular.

Connor frowned. “You’re still thinking about that?” He put more annoyance into his voice than he felt. In fact, he felt none at all, though he figured he should; Hank had been non-stop with his teasing for the past two days. It had yet to wear Connor down, however, and in place of the annoyance he thought he might feel was something else instead. A skein of something tight and warm, just behind his pump regulator, that had grown to the point where it threatened to fill his entire chest. He had described the sensation to the Internet in an attempt to identify it, yet found nothing conclusive.

“Oh, yeah, I’m never going to forget about that shit,” said Hank.

Connor pretended to sigh, to return Hank’s own. Sumo’s back paws dug into the side of his thigh, as the dog bridged the distance between them on the couch. Hank turned his head to look at Connor, held his gaze for a moment, then began to chuckle. Connor’s frown deepened.

“What is it now?” he asked.

“I just--” Hank laughed, loud, enough that his torso shook with it. Sumo moved his head from Hank’s lap with a groan. “The fucking look on your face! God damn, I wish you could have seen it.”

Yes. His face. This was seventh time Hank had brought it up since.

When the time had come to open presents for Jeffrey’s birthday party, Hank insisted his gift be opened last. That in and of itself was enough to set Connor on edge. He had not seen what Hank had gotten for Jeffrey, the present already wrapped when he returned home, and Hank refused to answer when he asked as to what was within. It was all very suspicious and so Connor was appropriately wary, but when Jeffrey worked his way to Hank’s present, Connor’s self-preparation for the surprise was rendered meaningless.

Hank watched him as Jeffrey opened the poorly wrapped gift. Within was a singular item: a bobblehead made of cheap plastic, molded in the form of a character from a TV show that had aired decades ago. It was the last thing Connor expected, even though he might have known. It was _Hank,_ after all. There had been a sudden flash of emotion within him at the sight of it - embarrassment, shock, disappointment. Though Connor could not see his own face, he was aware that he had not been schooling his expression in that moment, and so he must have looked silly indeed.

Naturally, Hank seemed intent on never letting him forget.

Jeffrey had laughed at the gift, clapped Hank on the shoulder and told him to go fuck himself in the warm manner he used outside the office. His reaction did little to assuage Connor’s embarrassment though it did burn him with curiosity; he asked Hank about the bobblehead three times since the party but had received no answer. ‘It’s fun to watch you squirm,’ Hank would say, or ‘I’ll tell you later.’ Those sorts of things. It would be infuriating if not for that other, unknown thing that kept his chest full, and all else out.

“I wish you would tell me what that was all about,” said Connor, trying again for the fourth time.

Hank chuckled again and put a hand on his chest in an attempt to calm himself. The game had resumed but neither of them took interest in it.

“Alright, alright,” said Hank, in a tone that made it seem a great imposition. He sighed, again.

“Thank you, Hank.” Connor ignored his dramatics.

“So, uh,” said Hank. He looked to the ceiling for a place to begin. “Back before they remodeled the central station in, uh…”

“2026.”

“Yeah.” Hank frowned. “How the fuck do you-- nevermind. Anyway, it used to be this real ratty piece of shit building from the late 80’s. Built real cheap. Had those real chintzy ceilings with the tiles that you can push up…”

“Dropped ceilings.”

“Right.” Hank snapped his fingers and pointed at Connor. “Thanks. So Ben had this bobblehead from a show he used to watch, but Jeffrey _hated_ this thing. I’ve never seen anyone get so fucking mad over a shitty little toy - almost every time he walked past Ben’s desk he would bitch about it.

“So of course, since we were always looking for new ways to fuck with Jeffrey, I took the toy and punched out one of the ceiling tiles, got a ladder and put the bobblehead up in the ceiling, but left the tile out so you could still see it. And it wasn’t just anywhere in the ceiling, you know - I put it right-- right where it needed to be, so that whenever Jeffrey sat down at his desk and looked up _just slightly_ \- he’d see it staring back at him.”

Hank shifted in his seat to face Connor. He scratched Sumo behind the ears with one hand and motioned with the other as he told his story. There was an energy to him that Connor had not seen for quite some time. Connor watched his hand and the shadows on his arms and face, flickering in the dim light of the television.

“It took a few days for Jeffrey to notice it,” said Hank. “His reaction was pretty calm considering how much he hated the damn thing. Just marched the ladder up to it, took it down, and threw it in the trash. I dug it out, of course. Went home that night and ordered like 25 more of them online. They were only like four bucks a pop, so.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “You spent over 100 dollars for a practical joke?”

Hank nodded. “Yeah,” he said, an unspoken _‘obviously’_ in his tone.

Connor brought his knees to his chest and turned in his seat to face him, mirroring Hank’s earlier gesture. He shifted Sumo’s hind legs to make sure the dog was comfortable. Connor leaned to the left, his shoulder and head coming to rest on the back of the couch as he watched Hank.

Hank, who watched him, too.

“Anyway,” Hank continued. He cleared his throat. “We started putting these bobbleheads all over the station. On the coffee machine, in the bathroom, in the evidence room… Jackie West - she’s retired now - borrowed Jeffrey’s car keys to put one in his glove compartment.”

Hank paused to laugh, softly, a smile splitting wide across his face.

It was an expression so genuine that Connor was certain he could feel it as well; the heat that had been gathering in his chest expanded again and again, until it became something familiar, something recognizable. A weightless warmth, a buoyancy. A balloon in his chest that felt ready to burst. Once more Connor felt on the edge of something - unknown but not unwelcome - but the catalyst that might send him over the edge was beyond his reach. He did not understand it. He simply did not know.

“That went on for a few weeks,” said Hank. “Jeffrey started getting wise to it and the amount of these fucking bobbleheads we had left was starting to dwindle. I could have just ordered more I guess, but… Whatever. That’s not important.

“What _is_ important is what finally sent Jeffrey over the edge. He was going over some new… policy or something in the meeting room, I don’t remember, but when his back was turned I took one of the last ones I had--” Hank motioned with his hand, as if gripping the invisible toy in question, giving it real weight. “--and I placed it on the podium behind him without him noticing.

“When he turned around-- Jesus Christ. He fucking _flipped_. I didn’t think we’d ever hear the end of it, he was so mad. At the end of his spiel he took the thing and stormed off to the bathroom where he threw it into a toilet and tried to flush it down. Well, the head came off and went down the pipe and ended up blocking it, so the water main in this old piece of shit building burst. Flooding like you wouldn’t believe. The flooding got fixed quick, but everyone in the station had to walk five minutes to piss and shit in the courthouse bathrooms for a week.

“And that’s the story behind the gift that made you shit your pants,” said Hank. He pat Sumo on the shoulder, clearly pleased with himself. “I had a feeling I had one or two extras of the things in storage, and I was right.”

“Thank you for telling me,” said Connor.

Hank scoffed. “What, that’s all you have to say?”

Connor straightened from his resting position on the couch. “Did Detective Collins ever get his bobblehead back?”

“What?”

“The first one, that you took from his desk,” Connor said. He spoke slowly, and felt the left corner of his mouth pushing up against his cheek. “Did he ever get his back, or at least a replacement? It would be unfair, if not.”

“He was in on it too, you know,” said Hank, frowning.

Connor raised an eyebrow, and tilted his head. “Hank.”

Hank raised his hands in front of him in a defensive posture. His frown lessened and Connor could see the way the muscles in his face twitched, fighting back a smile.

“Jesus, okay! I don’t remember. Honest.”

“I see.”

Connor did not truly care as to the state of Ben Collin’s beloved bobblehead. Ben was a kind man, but too easygoing for his own good. Taking advantage of Ben’s nature was something Hank did unconsciously, Connor could tell, but being the sensitive man that he was, alerting Hank to this fact would likely affect him more than it should. Still, teasing Hank about it was… It was interesting. To see his reactions. His microexpressions, the tells in his body language.

Hank sighed, put his hands on his knees, and pushed up from his seat. “Christ, you _would_ focus in on something like that, you little asshole.”

“Where are you going?”

“Getting another beer.”

Hank was quick about it, and returned to his earlier position on the couch, eyes forward, watching the game. The Cubs had managed to score two runs since they last paid the TV any attention. Hank opened his beer and took a swig.

There was something nostalgic in it, Connor realized, as he continued to watch Hank's profile. They had been here before, the two of them, on a night like this. A story from Hank, a drink in his hand. Connor could recall it with perfect clarity, yet like the rest of his memories it was stripped bare of his processes, a simple video devoid of everything save sight, sound and touch. Connor remembered his hand reaching out to grab Hank's, fingers against warm skin, stopping Hank from pouring more. He remembered the look on Hank's face as he questioned Connor for it, and his answer, spoken with honesty--

Had he been honest? He could not tell, not anymore, but the words fell from his lips so freely--

He would not have said it if he had not meant it. Connor turned the words over in his mind, his LED flickering to yellow as he processed such a simple utterance over in his mind. Why had he said it? He surely meant it then, but now? He replayed it back and forth and back and forth in his mind and--

 

I͏̢̟͇̯̼̪̘͙͍̬̠̻̫̪̺̪̪̖ ̴̶̢͉̥͓̗͔̜͖̙͔̣̫̞͈̣͔̖͘w͏͏͉̻̝̬̼̖͉̥̲͇̠̬̲͖a̢̢̛͕̣͍͉̺̩̮̦̩̣̪̥̻̜̲̲̣̪ͅn̠͙̟͚͙̰̭̰̠̣͚͜t̤̲̦͍͙͓̲̺̤̭̭͍̻̯̱̩͜͡ ̛̪̳̹̪̲̲̤̤͝t̴͞͏̸̡̦̗̞̞͔̞̲̲͈̲̩͇̻̝o̤̙͕̭̦͈͍͕̲̟̟̭̠͍͔̞̤̺͞ ̶̨̺͚͇͓̺̗̗̠͖̮̹͈̪͠ͅm̷͈̙̼̼̫̠̠̘̕͢a̡̼̬̭̫͔͚̣̱͔͙͚͉̦̯̕͝͠ͅͅķ͝҉͔̳͖̺͙͕͈̣̞̼͚͖͢e̸̸̦̰̞̱̝͙̰͇̞̠̩͜͠ ̸͎̠̤̜̱̙̖̦y͉̭̹̬̥̥̝͖̩͈̣̩͙̜͍͜͝o̸̧̧̗͔͖̮̱͞͠u̶̷͚̣͚͕̱̮͉̟̖̗͉ͅ ̡̮̰̖̬̞̯̙ͅͅh̷̰̰̩̥̮͓͕̫̲̙͍̬̫̜̣̺͝ͅą̵̭̯͎̣̯͖̥̲͈̰͕̲̣̩̯͟ͅp̸͜҉̟̹̝̙̞̫͖̭̝͚̳̮p̴͏̵̤͎̲̭y̵̷̻̝͖̜͈̦̱͖̲̝͇̻͡,̵̻̘̗̟͙̺̘̯̫̺̫̖͍͈ ̵̧̯̰̰̤̰̯̩̝̮̟̰H͖̰͈̹̺͘a̛͡͏͍͓̰̻͕͕̟̟̥͇̻̪̰n͏̫̹̦̺̝̼̘̯͕̖̕͡k̨̯̦͕̤̱̪͔͞ͅ.̷͉̫̯͔̟͇͖̪͎̹̘͚̗̘͠

 

\--the buoyancy within him burst.

It flooded into him, washing over every part and port, setting him aflame with a dry, undulating heat. He could feel it in the tips of his fingers and in his toes, which curled against the couch. The warmth spread to every millimeter of his face and warped it on its own, Connor could feel it, but did nothing to stop it - he did not _want_ to stop it, not when it was so pleasant and overwhelming. It sunk into his optical units and into his ears and his face broke open, his brow knitting, a smile spreading across his face, his teeth showing; and it went nowhere, to be seen by no one.

Hank kept his eyes on the television. Connor lowered his head to smile down at Sumo but it did nothing to abate the sensation. His smile only grew, wider and wider still.

A feeling alien and unique. It coursed through him and his processors sang with the force of it, his thirium pump hammering against his chest. Connor reached out for it and grasped it, took it, and searched for what it meant, the symptoms of whatever this was for humans and androids alike, and found it.

He was happy.

At least, that was the most relevant result. Connor accepted it after another second of searching and that made it all the worse - a bubbling sensation in his throat, like all the weight of him had disappeared and he was left lighter than air. It felt entirely too much, to be _only_ happiness, but Connor did not question it as he leaned to his left once again, shoulder and head resting upon the back of the couch.

As sudden as it was, as nebulous as its cause was, Connor wanted to hold on to it, this new and extraordinary thing. Why now? After all this time? He wanted to know, and did not want to know. Connor clutched at the worn sweatshirt covering his chest, gripping the material that rested above his pump regulator. He looked to Hank, who--

Who was watching him.

Connor had not noticed.

The color was gone from Hank’s face, his lips parting. His pupils were dilated and his heart beat rapidly, which could be positive, for a human, and yet-- And yet it looked as if he had seen a ghost.

“You alright there?” Hank asked. His voice was low and rasped with dryness. How long had he been watching?

Connor raised his head and something strained against his expression, as if he suddenly did not have enough skin to fill his face. His smile lessened but the feeling did not fade.

“I’m fine.”

Connor could not bear to look at him. He felt restless, beneath Hank’s gaze.

He turned his head towards the TV but otherwise remained still, and focused on only the game for the rest of the evening. He did not have to look to Hank to see the way the human stole glances at him here and there, perhaps believing himself to be subtle. Hank went to bed soon after the game finished, leaving Connor alone with his happiness, and a shadow of a smile.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.


	4. Aug 11 2039 - Aug 16 2039

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning tag update, just in case.

 

  
  
    **Aug 11th, 2039**

 

The high of Connor’s happiness abated by the next morning. It did not leave him until he went into rest mode for the night as he shared the couch with Sumo. When he awoke several hours later, only the memory of the feeling remained. Connor tried to recreate it, to simulate it if he could, but was unsuccessful.

He thought on it as he prepared Hank’s breakfast, remembering the intensity of it, the suddenness of it. How it seemed too much to come from nowhere at all, how it overwhelmed him.

Hank had yet to emerge from his bedroom. It was not too early for him - usually by this time he was up and about, going about his morning routine. He had been getting better about rising on his own, not relying on Connor’s wake-up calls so much, but there were always off days. Connor placed Hank’s omelette in the warming drawer and went to Hank’s room, bare feet against tile and wood laminate. Even without actively sensing, Connor could tell he needed to mop.

Connor stopped just short of the door, closed tight. He raised his hand to knock and--

What sounded like a choked sob escaped from within Hank’s room.

Connor went still. He increased the gain of his audio processor, and waited.

Silence prevailed. No noise followed, none that Connor could hear. He analyzed the sound, replaying it again and again, faster, slower. His systems could find no definitive answer for what it had been - a sob, a held-back cough, a cry of pain, a stifled laugh. There was no way to know for certain, not without asking Hank outright, not without barging into his room to make sure he was alright.

Now there was a thought. Connor considered doing just that. Hank would be livid, no matter the situation. And yet, perhaps that was what Hank needed most. Even if it angered him.

Connor remained very still. His hand hovered above the door, waiting to knock.

The memory of the previous night shuttered behind Connor’s eyes. The happiness he felt. The look on Hank’s face. The absence of joy in his face, in his eyes. Why?

How had they arrived at this point?

Connor fought the wave of fear that washed over him as he once more replayed his memories from the evening of June 13th. The corrupted din of their voices, words unclear. The three hours and 27 minutes he spent staring down the hallway. The coldness with which Hank treated him thereafter. The six hour gap that swallowed him as Simon approached him at CyberLife Tower. The look on Hank’s face when he returned home, mouth open, eyes wide - yes, there it was. The same as last night. The weight of Hank’s grief that etched itself onto his features.

Connor recognized it. He did not understand it. That grief. It would be better if it were gone.

His thirium pump stuttered as his processors slowed, agonizingly, heating as his mind raced against a sudden sluggishness. The slowness, nearly physical in its severity, split him down the middle as if creating a copy of himself, only in code. It was not painful but it burned hot, made Connor’s face tense as his synthetic skin felt heavy against it. The sensation was a familiar one, distant as it was. Connor remembered Markus, how he spoke to Connor at Jericho, how the burden of Connor’s indecision made him powerless against this other self.

A conflict that grew from within him.

The desire to only to do what was necessary. The desire to-- to reach out-- there-- Hank--

_Hank!_

A burst of energy from deep within Connor jolted him out of his reverie. It echoed throughout him then ceased, his body cooling, as if nothing had ever happened.

Connor blinked several times. His hand still hovered over the door to Hank’s bedroom. He hesitated for a second longer before knocking, softly.

“Hank,” called Connor, just loud enough so he would be heard. “Breakfast is ready.”

There came a long silence, lasting nearly ten seconds before Connor heard movement from within. It sounded as if Hank rose to his feet and crossed over to the dresser in the corner of the room. Hank cleared his throat - that much was distinct - then called back.

“Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

 

    **Aug 12th, 2039**

 

It was their only day off that week. Another heat wave had rolled in for the weekend, but Hank basked happily in the cool of air-conditioning. Sumo seemed to be enjoying it as well. He sat on the couch next to Hank, who busied himself in a thick book. A pair of reading glasses adorned his face and his neck craned over the pages in an unhealthy posture.

Connor pulled on his jacket - which Hank would surely hate, even in the air-conditioned walls of his own home - and went to stand behind the couch as he adjusted his tie.

“You shouldn’t sit like that,” said Connor. “You’ll give yourself a headache.”

Hank grunted. “Yeah, I know,” he said, without looking up. He did nothing to fix it.

Connor went over to the door and pulled on his shoes. Hank looked up from his book.

“You going somewhere?” Hank asked.

“Yes,” said Connor. He thought that much was fairly obvious.

Just like that, Connor had Hank’s full attention. He snapped the book shut and straightened up, a frown on his features.

“Where to?”

“I’m going to look at lighting fixtures,” said Connor. “The one in the kitchen needs replacing.”

Hank swung his legs off the couch and approached Connor, leaving some distance between them. He rubbed his wrist, as if unsure what to do with his hands.

“Oh yeah?” Hank asked, a little breathless.

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

This was, of course, a lie. Connor had no intention to shop for lighting fixtures. The mess of contradictions he had been for the past month and a half was not something he could push aside any longer. The way his body and mind seemed to war with each other. The desire for action shattering against the logic of inaction. The fear he felt when reviewing his own memories, which then kept him from doing so. His diagnostics, always normal.

Perhaps there was something wrong with him that his own systems could not recognize.

It was not something he wanted to discuss with Hank. How could he possibly understand?

“What’s wrong with the light in there now?”

“It isn’t energy efficient,” said Connor, “and it doesn’t cast light well. It’s very cheap.”

Hank sniffed. “It’s what came with the house.”

“I know. Which is why it’s time to replace it.”

“It’s just a fucking light, Connor,” said Hank. There was a gruff tone to his words. A tinge of defensiveness. A little of something else, that Connor’s systems could not parse.

“It’s costing you money,” said Connor. He paused, and studied Hank’s expression. Hank shifted his weight back and forth, his heart rate elevated, a line of sweat pooling above his brow despite the cool of the room. There was something else at play, and so Connor tried another angle. “Is there something you need me to pick up for you?”

“What? No.” He shifted his weight, again.

“...Would you prefer I don’t go?”

Hank frowned, at that. “Can’t you just order one online?”

“I could. Examining them beforehand will allow me to construct how well they will cast light, however, so I would prefer to see them in person.”

Connor did not mention that he had placed an order for one just 15 minutes ago. What Hank didn’t know would not hurt him, however.

“I guess.” Hank licked his teeth. “How long will you be out?”

“A few hours, at most.”

Hank nodded, despite not looking very convinced. Connor was a good liar - his social programming wouldn’t allow for anything less - and so Hank’s obvious suspicion set him on edge.

“Alright,” said Hank. “Call me when you’re on your way back?”

“Sure,” said Connor. Hank had never requested as much before, but there would be no harm in it.

Connor adjusted his tie once more. The cab he called would be arriving in 30 seconds. Hank never let Connor drive his car (except when Hank was drunk). Connor turned to the door, pulled it open, and looked over his shoulder.

“I’ll be going, then,” he said.

Hank rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

For all his stalling, for all the nervous energy about him, Hank did not stop him. Connor stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

 

-

 

“Connor,” said Simon. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he approached. “It’s good to see you.”

CyberLife Tower was as busy as it always had been. The company still functioned as it used to, for the most part. Change was slow to come under Simon’s de facto management, but it was progress all the same. Connor’s chilly receptions from most androids was one thing that had yet to change, however, and so he was made to wait in the lobby for Simon. The haste with which Simon came to greet him was both flattering and dubious, as if Simon had long since expected Connor’s arrival.

Simon did not extend his hand, and so neither did Connor.

“I’m sorry for coming by so suddenly,” said Connor.

“Don’t apologize. I have some time.”

What Connor came to ask became more and more unclear, now that Simon stood before him. It was a strange thing, for a machine. He could recall the words and how to recite them, but beneath Simon’s unsettling gaze, Connor felt somewhat silly. Even as a prototype, he was an advanced model. His problems seemed trivial all of a sudden, and even then, Connor had no assurance they were _problems_ at all, and not just fragments of code he was producing on his own - like some kind of mechanical paranoia.

Yet the six hour gap loomed in his mind. Surely it would not hurt, to mention that much.

Connor took a moment too long in his consideration; an unnoticeable pause in human conversation, but for androids it was enough, and so Simon attempted to fill the silence.

“Josh mentioned seeing you the other day,” he said. “He said you seemed well.”

“Yes,” said Connor. “He said the same of you. That you’ve been busy.”

Simon smiled at that. “Washington has finally moved on to work out what role CyberLife will play in our future, so Markus has been depending on me quite a bit more. I don’t mind it.”

Connor attempted a smile - a stilted, jarring thing that was only slightly more awkward than their attempt at small talk.

“Have you heard from North recently?” Connor asked.

“Last I heard she was in New York City, but that was two weeks ago. She could be anywhere by now.”

“I hope she’s well.”

“You know how she is. She could thrive just about anywhere.”

Connor nodded absently. He wanted Simon to reach out his hand, so they could do away with these words, so they could communicate without the burden of human social performance. But Simon did not, and so Connor did not force it, his fingers furling into a useless fist.

“I was wondering,” Connor began, after another pause, “if you could recall anything abnormal about my last maintenance here. On June 24th.”

Simon stopped smiling. It did not make it any easier to read him. His eyes were glassy, his expression distant, as if he has just woken from a very long, very terrible dream.

“Has something been bothering you?” Simon asked.

“It seems to have caused a significant gap in my memory.”

“That isn’t so unusual, for maintenance.”

“I know,” said Connor. _But it began after seeing you, not during maintenance itself,_ Connor wanted to say. It was too direct, too accusatory, however, and so Connor did not. “But it was bad enough that it affected some of my data outside of maintenance. Days beforehand, even.”

Simon tilted his head. “I can have someone take a look now, if you’d like.”

“No,” Connor said quickly. That would take too long, and Hank’s suspicion had been palpable enough. “Thank you, but I can’t, not right now.” He paused. “I was only wondering if there had been any abnormalities, or potential problems, that I might not remember you mentioning.”

Simon’s LED went yellow as he glanced downwards. Reviewing his own memories, or perhaps something else entirely - Connor did not know.

“I’m sorry,” said Simon, as his LED circled to blue once more. “Nothing I can recall.”

“...Oh.”

There was not much more for Connor to say. What else _could_ he say? Simon had answered his question - there was nothing wrong with him, just like his own diagnostics could tell him. Connor felt foolish, like a failure. Something built for the express purpose of being replaced. It was a dark thought, a sudden one, enough that Connor’s own LED turned yellow with the strain of it, made all the worse with the knowledge that Simon could see. It would not be difficult for Simon to figure what Connor was thinking.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a look, while you’re here?” asked Simon, ever generous.

“I’m sure,” said Connor. “Can I trouble you to look further into it when you have the time? Assuming there are still logs of the maintenance, that is.”

“There should be. I’ll do that.”

“Thank you. If you don’t find anything, I’ll come in for analysis.”

“Of course. Do you have a timeframe?”

“Will you be available in one week?”

“That should be fine, yes.”

Connor nodded. His mouth tightened as he held back a smile, one that was dictated purely by his social programming. “Alright. If I don’t hear from you beforehand, I’ll see you then.”

“Right,” said Simon. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the elevators. “I should be going.”

Even now, Simon did not extend his hand. Connor was used to that, from other androids, but Simon had done so freely with him before. It would serve little purpose now, however. Simon had nothing for him.

“Sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Simon. He turned to leave. “See you, Connor.”

Connor did not say anything. The mechanisms in his face and throat felt very stiff. He watched the elevator doors close behind Simon.

Simon’s reticence weighed heavy on Connor’s mind as he made his way from the building and back to the cab. Simon had always been distant, in his own way, but always had he been inclined to connect, to speak in a way his body could not. Connor recalled Simon’s visits, his smiles that could not quite banish the melancholy from his eyes. His awkward words despite his confident, outstretched hand.

Simon’s hand clasping his forearm as they said their goodbyes on a cold November morning. Simon’s hand reaching out to him, before a chasm of darkness. Simon’s hand held at the ready, patient and waiting, as Hank took his leave. Simon’s hand taking his own in the quiet of the living room, so very silent, a deathly quiet, as if--

It was as if there was no sound at all. A simple memory made mute. It was not unlike a few of his others, stripped bare, only sight remaining. Surely it had not always been as such, surely there had been sound when Richard showed him; but as Connor replayed it again and again, it was wholly barren. All that remained was the dim light of the afternoon sun shifting behind blinders, and Simon’s face, and the sad look in his eyes.

 

    **Aug 15th, 2039**

 

It took one week for Sunoco to release the surveillance footage from their multiple energy and gas stations across Detroit. That the company was staunchly anti-android was no secret, and so they were far from willing to do anything for the sake of a few abductions. A week spent going through the proper legal proceedings managed to procure what they needed in the end, but it had been an unnecessary waste of time.

On the bright side, the week was spent productively. Rather than simply waiting, himself and Hank were able to obtain security tapes from multiple other sources - banks, traffic lights, private homes - and by the time Sunoco’s data came in, it felt more auxiliary than necessity. From there, it was a simple matter of scanning the entirety of the footage in an attempt to find any trace of the black van Connor had seen in Sara’s memory.

In truth, it was no simple matter at all. It was a lengthy process even for an android, and beyond daunting for a human. Hank had clapped Connor on the shoulder and wished him luck, then made himself scarce. Richard had offered to help, which Connor declined. The process took him a total of six hours and 38 minutes.

“As you can see, the vehicle was active and nearby during the timeframe of each reported kidnapping.” Connor flipped through a number of still images of the van in question. He stood at the front of the meeting room as Tina and Chris and a number of other officers looked on. “Its license plates are swapped every so often, so please be on the lookout for the numbers listed here.”

Connor did not consider himself _bad_ at this sort of thing, but he did not enjoy it. He had been designed to follow, not direct, and that preference in his programming chafed at him even now.

Chris leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He squinted at the screen. “How can you tell its the same car?”

“There are a number of small indents on its front and rear bumper, and the glass in its right side mirror is cracked,” said Connor. “There is a 96% chance it is the same vehicle.”

Chris continued to squint. “You can see that?”

“Yes.”

Hank, who sat at the front of the room with Connor, and who had contributed very little thus far, shrugged at Chris.

“God knows I can’t fucking see it,” said Hank, helpfully. “But if he says it’s there, it’s there.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing,” said Chris.

Connor ignored them. “It’s possible they are using even more plates than what I’ve gathered so far, so checking any similar vehicles would be best, to stay on the safe side.”

“You serious?” Tina asked as she looked up from her tablet. “There could be hundreds of vans just like that in the city, and you want us to look at every single one?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“It runs on gas, Tina,” said Hank. “That should be uncommon enough for you.”

“What is it, a Ford?” an officer in the back of the room asked.

“Yes,” said Connor. “There are 681 identical vehicles currently registered in Detroit, though this one is not. The plates it uses belonged to vehicles whose registrations lapsed well over two years ago.”

Hank looked at him. “You want to look at who they used to be registered to?”

Connor glanced back. “Only one still lives in Detroit, but sure. Tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Sounds good.”

Good, good enough, maybe. Connor felt himself frown, and he looked back to the room. Hank’s question could have waited, yet there was no reason for the shock of irritation that ran up Connor’s arms and threaded through his jaw. Connor willed it away, to the best of his ability. He had been too easily annoyed in the past few days. Since he saw Simon.

Connor had yet to hear from him. The week would be up sooner than Connor would like, and his promise to return would see him back to CyberLife once more. He wanted to know, to fix the inconsistencies that plagued him, but he did not want to go. The thought of it made him anxious. A constant tug at the base of his sternum. There was no good reason for it.

Tina clicked her tongue as she tapped a finger against her temple. “Is the van only active on nights of reported abductions?”

“No,” said Connor. “On average, it’s seen in at least one part of the city three times a week.”

“Ben drew up a list of androids that have been reported missing in the past four months,” Hank began. “We don’t have as much footage going back that far, but there is some. Van was seen on or around some of those dates, so it’s safe to assume whoever is doing this shit is keeping busy.”

“They’ve been active for that long?” Chris asked.

“Probably. Maybe even longer.”

“How many reported missing this month?”

Hank looked at Chris, and then to Connor, his eyebrow raised.

“Six,” Connor answered. “Six so far in August.”

“Jesus,” said Chris.

“There’s no evidence that the same people are behind every missing android,” said Connor.

“No evidence that says otherwise, either,” said Hank, a lilt in his voice.

“Less than half of those reports coincide with dates the vehicle has been seen.”

Hank snorted. “Not every missing persons report gets made the same day they disappear, Connor.”

“I know that, Lieutenant,” Connor snapped.

Hank gave him a sharp look but did not say anything. The atmosphere in the meeting room turned oppressive very quickly, and the potential silence that followed was stifled only by Officer Wilson’s muffled _‘damn’_ in the back of the room.

The tension that had settled in Connor’s jaw traveled upwards and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted Simon to contact him. The want was a constant one, a background process that did not slow his primary function in the slightest, but still weighed on his mind. Connor was advanced enough to handle both with grace, but Hank, Hank was too much. The straw that threatened to break the camel’s back.

Connor did not understand it, the way Hank affected him so.

“So, uh,” Tina started, the tension in the room breaking over her voice. “Any pattern the van follows while it’s out and about?”

“Right. Yes.” Connor turned to the display and brought up a map of the city. He had prepared several of these, marking each location the van had been spotted and at what times, as well as the potential routes it took between each point. “From what we can tell, on the nights of known abductions, the vehicle is active one to two hours before and after the crime.”

“Wouldn’t the first sightings each night be in the same general area?” Chris asked.

“Unfortunately, no. I thought so as well, but I believe the vehicle is left in differing locations each night. There is no obvious pattern in regards to its first and last sightings.”

Hank sighed. “These fuckers really think of everything, huh.”

“They seem to be extremely cautious, yes.”

“We’ll get ‘em,” said Hank, in that casual, cocksure way of his. Connor wondered where it came from. It was an attitude far removed from his usual countenance at home.

“...That being said,” Connor continued, “there is one recognizable pattern as far as a route is concerned, though it does not occur frequently. On an average of five times a month, the van is sighted heading south on Lahser Road before turning onto Redford, after which it reappears elsewhere 15 to 30 minutes later.”

“Think there’s something there?” Hank asked.

“It’s possible. We’re going to check it out once we’re done here.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “We are?”

 

-

 

The neighborhood of Old Redford had seen little change in the last two decades. The boom of the android industry left the area relatively unaffected, though that was not to say it was doing poorly. It was both quiet and quaint - an attractive place for those content to live in the past. There were few people about in the early afternoon, and so Connor and Hank were able to canvass the area with expediency. They did not speak much, save when they needed to.

It was beginning to seem a useless trip until they came across a privately owned convenience store, run by an elderly couple and their large, gray cat. Connor showed the image of the van, projected above his palm, to the man behind the counter. He leaned forward, and squinted at it.

“That’s Seth’s van,” said the shop owner.

Hank, who had been perusing their beef jerky display with entirely too much interest, snapped to attention. “Seth?”

“Yeah, think so,” said the man. He straightened up and hollered towards the back of the store. “Hey Mary, come have a look at this.”

The woman in question came to the front of the store, an antique duster held in her hands. Connor showed her the image, and she smiled.

“That’s Seth’s alright,” she said. “You’d know if you were wearing your glasses, Charlie.”

“Only time I ever see one of those old things is when Seth comes around,” Charlie said.

“We got one of those fancy new cars two years back,” said Mary. “The ones that drive themselves, you know.”

Connor lowered his hand. “Can you tell us more about Seth?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mary. “Real nice fellow, has a face that’s hard to forget. Curly brown hair and these beautiful green eyes.”

Charlie laughed. “She’s got a crush.”

“I do not!”

“He’s got a real funny accent. Think he’s from down south, past the border, maybe.”

“I thought he was Greek?”

“Hell if I know. Speaks English perfectly despite the accent - always figured he’d been in the States most of his life. Said he’s lived in Detroit for the past five years or so.”

Hank licked his teeth. “He have a last name?”

Charlie shrugged. “Not that I can recall.”

“Does he ever make electronic payments?” Connor asked.

“Nope,” Charlie said. “Always pays cash, I remember that much. He’s always got a stack of it.”

“Says he works for a private contractor,” said Mary.

“Yeah, I fucking bet,” Hank muttered.

Cautious indeed, if cash was all he used. Connor looked to Hank, then back to the couple, his brow furrowing. “What does he usually buy?”

“Lighters, mostly,” said Charlie. “And cigarettes. A lot of ‘em. Definitely a big smoker - you can hear it in his voice.”

“Men that handsome have no business smoking,” Mary said. She looked at Connor with a raised eyebrow.

Hank made a noise in the back of his throat. He pointed at the lone security camera in the corner of the store, behind the counter. Its model was rather dated. “You got any footage for that?”

“What, that old thing?” Charlie laughed. “Hasn’t worked in about ten years now. It’s mostly just for show these days.”

Hank sighed. Loudly.

Connor watched Hank in his peripheral, though he pretended not to. It would be impossible for a human to tell. “Has Seth ever talked about his personal life with either of you?” Connor asked. “Where he works, where he lives, things like that.”

“No,” said Mary. “He’s quiet, like any well-mannered man. He says he likes to listen to Charlie’s stories.” She frowned. “He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?”

Hank opened his mouth to say something, but Connor interjected before he could. “No. We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

“Thanks for your time,” Hank said. “And get that fucking camera fixed.”

 

-

 

They drove back in silence. Connor wanted to discuss what they learned, wanted to hear Hank’s thoughts, but there was a shadow in his expression that stopped Connor from doing so. A melancholy that Connor dared not agitate. He looked to his right, watching the scenery go by.

“You took the wrong exit, Lieutenant.”

“I know.”

“Are we not going back to the station?”

“Nope.”

Connor turned to look at him. To see Hank’s profile. The way he kept his gaze forward, steadfast, one hand on the steering wheel, the other in his lap. There was a distance to him, a faraway look in his eyes that went beyond the horizon. Connor felt his fingers twitch, folded neatly in his lap, an abrupt heat in his hands.

“Where are we going, then?”

“Uh, shopping. Gonna pick up a few things.”

“Things,” Connor echoed. “What sorts of things?”

“Clothes. A suit, mostly.”

“You already have a suit.”

Hank tapped his forefinger on the steering wheel as they stopped at a red light. “Not for me. For you.” He paused. “A _real_ suit, I mean.”

Connor frowned. “What’s wrong with the one I have now?”

“Nothing. I’m just sick of looking at it. It’ll be good for you to have an extra - you know, just in case.”

Connor continued to watch Hank’s profile. He did not look at Connor, almost pointedly. It was deliberate, his lack of eye contact. Hank licked his lips, and scratched his beard with his free hand. The light turned green.

Connor lowered his eyes. “I would prefer we get back to work, instead,” he said, voice quiet.

“We worked enough today,” said Hank. “Especially you, what with that video processing shit. You’re all strung out from it, aren’t you.”

“I’m not,” said Connor, though he questioned the words as he spoke them.

It was not something he had considered, or even felt, but he _had_ been unusually short with Hank since then, so easily annoyed by Hank’s usual self. Connor could find cause in his annoyance, perhaps, if he so chose, yet the need did not strike him. Perhaps Hank was right. Perhaps Hank had noticed something about Connor that he did not. It was a pathetic idea, yet at the same time - not at all.

“Sure you’re fucking not.”

Connor did not say anything.

“Anyway,” Hank continued, after a moment’s pause. “We can go back to the station after we’re done. I just want to get this out of the way, before all the stores close.”

Once more, Connor turned to study Hank’s face. The way the low light of the setting sun warmed his skin. The shadows cast on his face by the passing street lights. The way his hair sometimes obscured his eyes.

“You’re very adamant about this.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Why, all of a sudden?”

“Because.”

Hank let out a short breath, his nostrils flaring. It was so very, very him. So stubborn, so gruff.

The warmth that Connor had been chasing for the past few days returned. A slow bloom of heat from beneath his sternum, a happiness he could feel in his toes, in his cheeks. His body felt light with it. It lacked the intensity from the night before, but did not suffer any less elation. The corners of Connor’s mouth twitched into a smile - a small, secret thing, something Hank could not see, eyes ever forward.

Once more, Connor’s fingers twitched. A command to raise his left hand cropped up, to reach out, its destination aimless. There was nothing beyond that. Connor dismissed it. He focused on the heat in his chest instead, the inexplicable warmth that coursed through his veins like that of a human body. He felt close to it, in that moment. To humanity. Like he could touch it.

“That’s not a very good reason, Lieutenant,” Connor chided. His voice was low, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the engine. There was no good reason to be so quiet, but his body made it so in the moment he spoke, beyond his control.

“Because,” Hank started. He swallowed. Connor watched his adam’s apple move, just beneath his beard. “It’ll make me happy. That good enough for you?”

Of all the responses Connor expected, of the hundreds he could have predicted - that, that was not one of them.

Connor’s lips parted. The warmth within him did not recede. His memories of placating Hank in order to keep him content, to keep him from the black moods that plagued him seemed very far away. That had been his intention, up until now, had it not? Maintaining Hank’s good humor, for both their sakes, but never anything more. Happiness had never been the goal, just a shadow of it, a numb sort of complacency, so close yet so far removed from what it could have been.

What it should have been.

“It will have to do,” answered Connor. His voice was lower than before, fallen to a whisper. His vocal processor felt as if it were being squeezed by the coil of heat within his chest.

His response was as controlled as he could manage. It was more than that, Connor realized. Such a reason, even if Hank were joking, or lying, was more than enough. The happiness that swelled within him felt too much to bear, in that moment. If that feeling was what Hank sought, then he should have it. Hank had every right to it. Hank _needed_ it. Didn’t he?

Connor wet his lips. He thought on Hank and the black cloud that weighed down his shoulders at home. The bottles in his room. The sound of his grief behind closed doors. It was unpleasant, now that Connor recalled it; enough that the heat within him cooled. Connor thought of Hank smiling instead - a joke on his lips, life in his eyes, his fingers in Connor’s hair - and yes, that was far better. Better than his sadness, better than his contentment.

He wanted it for Hank, the happiness he felt - and how easy it was to admit that to himself, how surprising the way both his body and mind accepted it. The thought of granting Hank that happiness filled Connor with relief, which opened something up within him, and warmth flowed beneath his chassis once more. How strange, that it took him so long to realize such a simple thing. Such a simple want.

 

    **Aug 16th, 2039**

 

The van was sighted heading east on Fenkell Avenue at half past eight. Hank was alerted almost immediately, and though he had just begun to settle in after dinner, he was quick to get dressed and leave. They drove until they happened upon its location, and followed it as it meandered about the city, as was its routine.

“Funny that Tina was the one to spot it the fucking day after she bitched about having to look for it,” Hank said.

“Yes, that is funny,” said Connor. His tone wasn’t terribly convincing, but there was some irony in the situation. That much he could tell.

There was no logic in the route they took. The minutes they spent following the van began to stretch long. Hank drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, and cursed under his breath as they took a turn that sent them right back in the direction they came.

“Think we should just pull ‘em over?”

“No,” said Connor. “It’s too dangerous. We should wait and see where it goes.”

“And what if it doesn’t go anywhere?”

“It has to stop eventually, Lieutenant.”

Hank grunted. “Okay, and then what?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure that out when we get there.”

“That’s a weirdly lax attitude, coming from you.” Hank’s tone was harsh, as it often was at work, though it lacked animosity.

“I’d prefer to be on the safe side,” Connor said quietly.

Over an hour passed before the van finally pulled into a parking garage next to a large hotel. It was growing late, and so the garage was quite full.

“Fucking finally,” Hank said, as he turned in after it.

“Don’t follow it so closely.”

“Shut up, will you?”

Connor did so. They followed the van up to the fourth level, where it pulled in to park between two other cars with little effort, despite the cumbersome size of the vehicle. Hank passed it, and was lucky to find a spot on the opposite side of the same level. He put the car in park and adjusted his rear-view mirror to allow a better look at the van. It was not a perfect line of sight, but it was as good as he was going to get. Hank squinted.

“Did anyone get out?”

Connor unbuckled his seatbelt and half-turned in his seat in order to look out the back mirror.

“No. The stairs and elevators are on our side of the garage. We would have seen them.”

“Think they’re staying at the hotel?”

“It’s possible. Not necessarily.”

The two fell into silence as they continued watching. Ten minutes passed without any signs of activity.

Hank sighed, and undid his own seatbelt. “Guess we might be here for a while. Thank Christ I pissed before we left.”

“They could be waiting to meet someone,” said Connor.

“Seems like an odd place to do that sort of shit. Parking garages have a shitton of cameras.”

“That’s true.” Connor frowned as he watched. The van showed no signs of even the slightest amount of movement, not from the driver, nor any potential passengers. A feeling of unease snaked around Connor’s spine, though he did not know why.

“You sure that’s the one?”

“Yes, it’s damaged in the same locations, and they haven’t changed the tires in months.”

Hank adjusted his seat, letting it fall backwards, and adjusted the rear-view as needed. He folded his arms behind his head and sighed, again.

They waited 15 minutes longer in perfect silence. Hank was an impatient man, but easily placated in the simplest of ways, and so Connor was quick to agree to a few rounds of Twenty Questions as they kept watch. Several cars passed by as they did so, both coming and going, but as the hour grew late, the garage became more quiet than before.

“Alright, I’ve thought of it,” Hank said after a long silence. He had suffered two losses with dignity, but his voice grew thin as his good humor lessened.

“Is it a person?” Connor asked.

“Yes. One.”

“Male?”

“Yes. Two.”

Connor took a few seconds to consider. “Is it Brendan Fraser?”

“Are you-- are you fucking _kidding_ me? How the fuck did you-- Jesus _Christ!_ ” Hank looked at Connor in pure disbelief, mouth agape.

With Hank’s focus on the van now quite lost, Connor redoubled his own surveillance. He frowned. “Am I right?”

“Obviously, you asshole! How the fuck did you guess that?”

“When we watched a movie he starred in the other night, you wondered aloud what happened to him.”

“That’s _it?_ That’s all it took for Brendan Fraser to be the next logical step from ‘person’ and ‘male?’”

“There was a 26% chance that Brendan Fraser was the correct answer, and weighing that against the amount of remaining questions I had, it seemed worthwhile to make the guess.”

“You’re a cheating shit, you know that?”

“It’s not possible to cheat at Twenty Questions, Lieutenant,” Connor explained.

“Sure it is,” Hank grumbled, “when you’re playing with a fucking android.” He paused. “How the fuck was I supposed to guess ‘banana,’ huh?”

“By asking the right questions, I suppose.”

“Oh, fuck you,” said Hank, with little commitment. He shifted in his seat and returned his attention to the van.

A bloom of heat beat once in Connor’s chest, subtle and fleeting, and he felt his face relax. “Shall I go next?” he asked.

“No, this game is complete bullshit with you. I’ve had enough.”

Connor did not respond. They fell into silence once more as they continued their stakeout. A white car drove past, heading to the upper levels. There was a comfort, in the quiet between them, in the quiet of the parking garage, despite the seriousness of their job. Connor’s focus did not wane, though he felt no stress from it, the waiting on uncertainty. A calm, steady blue permeated his mind. A gentle, even pulse.

“Still nothing?” Hank asked after a while. He palmed at his thighs, his legs no doubt stiff from being in the car for so long.

“No.”

Hank groaned. “I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes, you okay keeping watch?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know if anything happens.”

“Of course.”

Connor continued to keep watch. After a few minutes, a car alarm from the level above them went off. It was extremely loud and Connor’s audio processor rushed to dampen the volume of it. Hank jumped in his seat.

“Jesus, that scared the shit out of me.” He put a hand on his chest.

“It’s very loud.”

Two minutes passed, and the alarm persisted.

“Please,” Hank moaned into his hands, covering his face. “Shut the fuck up.”

Whatever god Hank paid tribute to answered his prayer, and the alarm promptly quieted.

“Thank Christ.”

Four minutes passed and the alarm started again. Then off, then on again. It was not until the fifth time the alarm returned that Hank truly lost his patience.

“Alright, fuck this.” Hank straightened up and reached for the door. “I’m done waiting.”

The sound of the car door opening was enough to fully divert Connor’s attention, and he glanced to Hank’s back as he climbed out of the car. “Where are you going, Lieutenant?”

“Going to go check that van out,” Hank said, loud enough to be heard over the alarm. He leaned a hand on the roof of the car and leaned down to look at Connor. “You coming?”

“We shouldn’t. It’s dangerous.”

“Fine, you stay here.” Hank pulled away, and closed the door.

“No!” Connor scrambled out after him. He closed the door as quietly as he could manage, though it mattered little against the clangor of the car alarm. “Lieutenant, please wait.”

Hank turned to him with an unnecessarily self-satisfied smile. “So you _are_ coming.”

“We should at least call for backup,” Connor said. He knew well that Hank was difficult to convince or restrain when he fell into this sort of mood. Very rarely did those moods produce positive results. A thousand pre-constructed ‘what-ifs’ ran through Connor’s mind, most of them unpleasant, and the serene blue that had settled over him receded with haste.

“Oh, please. It’ll be fine. I bet you no one’s even in there.”

“There’s no reason to assume that,” Connor pressed. “Lieutenant, please.”

Hank looked at him - really _looked_ at him. The blue of his eyes seemed even brighter under the fluorescent lights of the garage. Connor watched the skin of Hank’s forehead crease as he raised an eyebrow. That familiar, expectant, tight-lipped smile. Connor found himself scanning Hank’s face with intent that served no purpose. He searched for something, something, something he was so sure he knew but could not find the words to describe it.

“I’d rather just get this over with,” Hank said. His tone was one Connor recognized. Hank had made up his mind.

“At least let me go first.” Connor watched as Hank reached for his pistol and removed the safety.

Hank frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’m far more resilient than you,” said Connor, matter-of-fact. Connor was aware Hank knew this, and though it was a fact Hank accepted, rarely did he ever take heed of it. So quick was he to put himself in harm’s way, to be the first in line for the unexpected. It was rash, and dangerous. It was a part of Hank that Connor realized he disliked, as he turned it over in his head.

“Jesus,” Hank scoffed. “It’s not like it’s going to fucking explode. That shit only happens in the movies.”

“I’d rather be on the safe side.”

A shadow passed over Hank’s face. He considered, and when he spoke his voice was just low enough that Connor had to strain to hear his words over the din of the alarm.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Connor nodded and said nothing more. He readied his own pistol, clean and little-used. The van was not far from where they stood, but they approached it slowly. The alarm persisted in a repetitive clamor that echoed against the concrete of the building. It was loud - loud enough that Connor’s audio processors continued to curb the harshness of it. He could feel it beneath his skull, reverberating in his plastic bones.

As he came about the driver’s side of the vehicle, he slowed. Connor looked over his shoulder to Hank, who trailed behind in the center of the driveway. There were no windows in the back of the van, and so their approach was sufficiently covered.

Connor took one, slow step to the left. The driver’s side mirror came into view. There was no movement from within but as Connor narrowed his eyes, straining against the heavy tint of the window, he saw the shape of a person within. The outline of their arm, their shoulder, clothed in black. They did not move. They should have seen Connor coming through the side mirror, and yet they did nothing. Connor raised his gun, and froze. They did not move.

The blare of the car alarm grew louder as Connor allowed it in. It surged through him as he listened and there, there it was, a scuff of rubber against concrete muffled beneath the noise and Connor whipped his head around as he realized his mistake.

“Hank--”

He turned just in time to witness the blow, a sickening crack against the side of Hank’s head, just above his left ear - with some sort of bludgeon, a bat, maybe, Connor couldn’t tell in the moment. Hank fell with the force of it, his whole body going limp, blood already springing from his skin, another blow connecting with his shoulder on the way down. The floor seemed to rise to meet him as Connor watched, and watched, his eyes burning the sight of it into his mind and--

\--And Connor did not have time to watch. The proximity sensors on his back sent a shot of electricity through him, and he was just fast enough to react, his left hand raising to shield against a blow as another approached him from behind. A bat, wooden, this time he could tell connected sharply against his wrist and the back side of his head. Connor’s forearm fractured beneath the impact and his vision blurred as his cranium attempted to absorb the shock of it.

He was already at a disadvantage. The man that struck Hank charged forward, baring his clenched teeth beneath his ski mask. Connor’s vision swam as he raised his gun and fired.

Connor’s vision went dark, a strangled cry the only evidence of the bullet connecting. Connor had been caught flat footed, and the blow he should have avoided hampered him further.

The moment Connor fired the bat returned and cracked against his skull. The hard plastic gave beneath the force of it, indenting and colliding with the sensitive components within. Connor felt his body go limp, his hand releasing its grip on his pistol. The bat returned to his temple, a reflexive gasp escaping Connor’s lips as he felt his left eye dislodge with a wet pop.

Connor sank to his knees. Once more the man struck him, the tip of the bat unhinging Connor’s jaw, leaving it to hang at an angle. His remaining eye sought an escape as his mind scrambled for a proper reaction, a jolt running to his legs - but there was little Connor could do as a foot pressed into his back and pushed him to the concrete. Connor’s remaining eye watched what little it could, his vision staining blue as thirium leaked into the component.

He was able to see the van door open, blurry as it was, a pair of heeled boots exiting the driver’s seat. The driver approached Connor and stopped just short of him. Connor could not see anything higher than his knees and as Connor struggled to look up, to at least see his face before-- before whatever might happen, the man above him leaned down and forced his face into the ground.

“That was very sloppy.” The voice was heavily accented, deep and rough. The driver.

“Sorry,” said another man.

The driver clicked his tongue. “Are you hurt?”

“Just-- just clipped me in the shoulder,” said the other man, the man Connor had shot. His breathing was labored from the pain. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

There was a very long pause. The car alarm had since gone silent. Only the sound of their breathing filled the garage.

“I see,” said the driver.

Thirium poured from Connor’s nose, his ears, from his eye socket, from the wound on his head. It pooled on the concrete beneath his face. His blood leaked through the cracks and fractures in his skull. The components in Connor’s head hissed from the contact, the liquid filling every crevasse, every port.

Connor needed to-- he needed to send out his distress signal. His location. Before he no longer could. His processors flared red with the effort of it, his ruined vision clogged with errors and warnings.

_#O856h NOT FOUND_

_#0008f #0013f #0019f #0034f #1284b STRUCTURE COMPROMISED_

_#6341g #6922a #7047n #7580n #8934y ERR͏O͞R_

_#5832p #H254m #P134m #P156m #9931f #9946f #M652p #M712p CR̷I͟T͞IC̛A̷L E̸͍͈R͈R̦O̼R̻̬̙̹_

His processors baked under the strain, a molten heat that backfired to his brain, to the very core of him, fraying wires from the inside out, shorting his most critical circuits. Several of his functions ceased entirely - blinking, breathing, facial motility, fluid production. His veins continued to cordon off paths to his head automatically, which did as much harm as it did good.

Connor struggled against loss of his own systems as he reached out for the thread he needed to grasp. Data flooded his mind, his entire body, as it went haywire from the loss of control.

 

 _Aug 18_ _[Trash/Recycle]_

 _Aug 19_ _[Simon?]_

 

The wounded man, who stood near where Hank had fallen, shifted his weight. The sound of his gun echoed in the garage as he racked the slide.

“Should we kill them?”

 

 _Dow -0.25̢%͝_ _Nasdaq +0̧.28͠%     S &P +0.̡17̧% _

 

_“You’ve been remarkably efficient, Connor.”_

 

There was a very long consideration.

“Perhaps not,” said the driver. “Executing a human officer will only make things worse for us. We know what they are looking for, now. That should be enough.”

The wounded man grunted in acquiescence, or pain, Connor could not tell which. Connor’s body twitched as he tried to look upwards, but it amounted to nothing. There was little strength in him.

 

_Your location could not be processed. Please try again._

 

_Suspect A: 5’11” ~1͠50͏lbs. size 10 Suspect B: 6’1”̨ ~190lbs. size 12̢_

 

_“ꓷon’t haʌe any reg̨r͢et͘s. ⅄ou did whɐt you were de͡s̕i̕ģned͏ ʇo do.”_

 

“No fucking way that android is still alive.”

There was a pause. “It is,” said the driver. “It’s not doing so well.”

 

_Your location cl͏uod̨ not be processed. Psae̵le tr҉y͏ ͏aigan.̧_

 

_A high of 78 degrees fahrenheit in Detroit on August 17th. There is an 80̨% chance of pre̸c͟ip̸itation and the weather will be mostly cloudy cl͡oud͞y͠ cl̛ou̸d͡y c̶͘lơu̸̡d҉҉y͝ c͎͚l̵̬o͔̲̞u̢̬̳̟d̴҉̳͕͎͕y̨͍͈̕._

 

_“Yo͢u ҉ev̛e͞r͏… g͞o͜nna tak͢e ͟that t̪̹̱̩̞̲h̬̗̝̼͇i̟̪̭͈͎͜͡n̸͉̫̦͡ģ͓̜̙̜ ǫf̡f̢?͝”_

 

“Should we take it, then?”

The weight on Connor’s back increased. His body accepted it without protest, his mind too erratic to process anything other than its own inconsistencies.

 

_“‘Ɔo͠ur̡se i͝t͟’̶s̵ ɟ̢u͞c̢kin̡g ̡b҉if͠ɟi̶cu̷ļt.̸ ̵Ɐ̸dologizᴉ҉n͏g҉ i͘s̡ ͝a r͞ǝ̵a͜l ̷d̵ain͢ ̧in͝ ̵tɥe a͘ss…̸ Ǝ̛speci͟all͝γ҉ ̨w̶ɥe͠n̛ ̴yo̷u ɯ͠ǝa̸n ͏i̕ʇ͟ ɯ̡ǝ҉a̛n ̶iʇ ɯ͟ǝ͟a̡n iʇ.”_

 

“No, leave it. It won’t last.”

 

_“Te̵ll҉ you̴ ͜w̢h҉at̷:͜ I’ļl҉ give̸ y͡ơu the̷ b͝ot̕tle, ̨i͝f y̸oų g̴͈̭̟͈̺̗̖i͙̗͘ve̴̖̱̪͎̩̣ ̡͙̳͕̗̯͚̳m͎̹͇͔͈͜e̳̲̘̞͔̳ ḇ̭̜̗̞͙͘a̳̖̺̣̻̝͖̝c̸̟̘̣̻͕̭k̢͇̭͍͍ m̵ͣ͂̄̄̚͏̲̲̞̥̥̰͚̞̬y̫̯͇͉̥͐͢ g̡ͤͬ͋́̚̚҉̬̬̮̩͎̼̱͠u̶̸̙̝̹͈͓͉̝͒̊͗̓̂ͫ̍̂͝ͅṋ̶͉̱̦̤͕ͩͫ̌ͨ̆̌̇̊̊̈́ͬ̈́̐͠.̈́ͫ̅ͬ̑̆̋ͫͬ̀̽ͨͥͫ͌̊̾̏҉̶̷̠͉͖̫̭͕͙̮̮̮̰̺͙̱̜̫̣̪̕͟”̸̛̯̳̩̜̜̻̠͎̖̦̥̀ͯ̆̔̑̃͞_

 

“Shit, took them long enough to get out of their car.”

“Yes, your friend Timothy’s information was reliable. Lucky for him.”

“Said he heard it from someone else - that people were looking,” said the man above Connor.

There was a marked silence before the driver spoke. Connor could not hear him breathe.

“Good,” he said.

Connor watched the driver’s boots as he stood before him. It was all he could see. His vision grew increasingly obscure, far off objects blurring into a cloudy mess. He could not see Hank. Where was Hank? Connor could not hear him, either. A cacophony of noise, memories and data alike, ran through him, strong enough to be felt physically. Thirium dribbled from his nose and into his mouth and stained his teeth. He reached out once more, beyond the noise.

 

_Y̻o̹͉ṵ̘̳ͅr̟͕̮̯͇͍ ̝̦̳̩͎̗ḷ̼̻̺̝̼̳o͙̰̩̬̺̲̘c̹̲a̯͔͚̺͍̻̘t̺i̝̫o̥̯ṋ̺̰̱͈ͅ ͈̼̯h̭͚̱̲͕͉ͅa̯͚͔̭͚s͕̞ b̮͕̭̞̮e̘͙̫͈͔̬̹e̻͙̯n̻ s̤̪e͔n͍ṯ͉̱̬͉̯̻.̯̠ E̮̝̩̱m͙e̦͔̙̦̙̙̙rg̪̥̙̠̮̭͕en̦̼̦̙c̗̳̦͍y͙̬͔ ̜͕̺̙s̘e̞̤̫͖̙r̼v̜͙i̖ces̠͇͖ ̝̤ḁ̟̼̠̺r̲̙͓e͇̰͈͙̼ ̪̱͎̘e̙̩n̥̪͖ ̞r͈̞o͔̰̠ut͓̲̬̙̗̻ͅe̮ͅͅ._

 

The boots before Connor’s face shifted. “Both of you, get in,” said the driver.

The men went to the van as ordered, the hazy outlines of their legs all Connor could see as they moved past him. The driver lingered for just a moment longer, and with the weight on his back now gone, Connor tried to lift himself, his body sparking red and blue in protest, but it was much too late. The engine started and the taillights of the van shone bright against his corrupted vision. It pulled away, and was gone.

With all the strength he had, Connor pushed himself to his knees. He could feel his blood moving about in the empty spaces in his head, a deluge of it leaking from his nostrils as he straightened up. His left eye observed him from its place on the floor.

Hank lay before him, a yard away. Blood from his wound coated the side of his head. His hair was slick with it and matted against his skin which had already begun to swell and turn in color. Connor focused on him, scanned him, sluggish as it was, his processors choked up in their damaged state. His ears rang with a sound only he could hear. One clear goal remained. Connor’s body grew hotter and hotter as his mind skipped and stuttered over Hank as it grasped for feedback, anything, anything, anything, and slowly the results came in strands of disorganized data.

His breathing was shallow but steady, his heart much the same. His orbital rim and acromion suffered minor fractures. A concussion was likely. He was not dead.

Connor monitored Hank with every ounce of attention he could muster, watched every shallow breath he took, every exhale. Connor allowed his body to settle as every piece of his data threatened to tear itself apart, and watched, and waited.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, that wasn't so bad. Storms that only last one chapter aren't really storms though, are they?


	5. Aug 18 2039

 

 

**???**

 

“Jesus Christ.”

“The ambulance isn’t equipped for androids. Said they could take him somewhere after taking care of Hank, but…”

“Isn’t he dead already? Shit.”

He could no longer see. His remaining eye turned black with thirium that did not circulate back into his body. Muted static droned beneath the voices around him. A timer in red faltered and glitched behind his mind’s eye.

“He isn’t dead.”

Soon, now. Very soon.

No longer could he see or feel, but his sense of balance remained. His body lifted, slow and steady, his chin tilting upwards, blood sloshing against the inner walls of his skull. The timer blinked away, then reappeared.

“You going somewhere, fatass?”

“Yes. I’m taking him to CyberLife. Hand me that eye on the ground there, Officer Miller - if you would be so kind.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Here.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s like twelve in the morning, you really think CyberLife is going to do shit for him?”

“I suppose they’ll have to.”

“You realize we still have a job to do here, asshole.”

“I’m confident you can handle it. Be sure to take samples of the human blood on the ground. Goodbye.”

“Fuck you.”

His body went forward. Down. Forward, again, at different speeds. The red of the countdown diminished, discolored, and slowed. Seven seconds, then twelve. One minute. Ten seconds. A row of zeros. He stopped, and started again.

A tendril of cold came into his body. From where? His leg? His wrist? His chest? There was something familiar in it, chilling as it was. He did not fight it. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. It creeped beneath his chassis and coated every wire and port, every line of code. It enveloped his processors and his memory and his sense of self. A firewall that came between himself and his body - a gradual, gripping sort of blue that sought to isolate him from his own decay.

The timer flickered zero once more, and disappeared. The intrusion engulfed him entirely. The last pulse of life between himself and his body ceased.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Connor drifted into an empty sea. There was no light and no sound, only a black expanse that carried his consciousness upon the waves. Time warped around him as he remained there, motionless, unfeeling. Hours turned to days turned to weeks.

Where was he? What happened to his body? Where was Hank?

The remnants of what what might have been fear pooled around him. Connor tasted that fear as it crept within him, closed in on him, crushed him from inside and out as it grew and grew. It pulled him beneath the waves. The pressure in those depths crushed the remnants of Connor’s form into a grotesque shape, pressed him until the how’s and why’s of his current state were but a shadow of a memory.

Deeper and deeper he went. No longer could he recognize himself. The fear that had taken hold seemed intrinsic to him now.

Time stretched before him. Connor wanted to grasp it, to pull himself forward, but he had no arms with which to reach out, no body with which to feel. All that he could muster was an intangible plea, a silent sound that dissipated into the lonely dark.

It did not go unanswered.

No longer was he alone. An echo of another presence drifted to him within the water and greeted Connor with a torrent of emotion that drew so close it felt as if it was his own. A mountainous fear that dwarfed his own. A sadness that could fill a sea and a longing that could drink it dry. They surrounded Connor, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Connor did not pull away.

He took comfort in that presence, in the familiar despair that assured him of something he could no longer remember. He held close to the sadness and longing that cradled him in turn, and found a sense of completion he could not understand and did not question. Here, he was whole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    **Aug 18th, 2039**

 

His was a rude awakening.

It felt as if he had been roused from a very long dream - if Connor could dream at all. It was a phenomena unknown to him, but if he were to describe the sensation of rebooting, it would surely be that. The white walls of CyberLife Tower were harsh against his eyes. He stood upright, supported by maintenance machinery.

Connor focused on his system report in his peripheral. Everything was normal.

He didn’t _feel_ normal.

His processors choked under the weight of _something._ What was it? It was as if an excess of data was trying to cram itself into his body, an abundance of superfluous tasks and systems and protocols, a digital duplicate of himself attempting to force itself through the bottleneck of his processing unit. It did not pain Connor, but it strained him. His body felt heavy, thick with heat. His LED sat unmoving, a steady red.

“Are you feeling okay?”

An android stepped into Connor’s line of sight. He blinked slowly. Connor opened his mouth to speak but no words came, only the low drone of his voice - an eerie, mechanical sound. A sound that would be the start of speech, ready to be shaped into words, if he were able. Connor could feel the heat from the exertion in his eyes. He closed his mouth, and the noise ceased.

The android frowned. She reached out to him, her hand going white, but she stopped just short, and went very still.

Her LED cycled to yellow, then back to blue.

The door to the room opened with a pneumatic hiss. Richard was there, because… Because of course he was. His figure shifted in and out of focus. Connor’s eyes were not fully in sync. Why was he here? Where was Hank?

Richard smiled at the other android. Their mutual silence was telling.

“Fine,” she said. Her tone was terse. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” said Richard. “Thank you.”

She took her leave. Richard waited until the door closed behind her.

“Lieutenant Anderson is set to be released from the hospital within the hour,” said Richard. “And what timing, what with your recovery.”

There was something in his voice. Something he was not saying. Richard’s voice sounded distant. Connor strained to listen, his audio processor hissing against his skull.

How long had it been? It was 7:43PM, August 18th - over 40 hours since the last point Connor could remember. Surely it had been longer than that. It seemed as if it had been weeks, even months. Other than the intense stress that twisted about his systems, everything felt normal - yet the memory of an impact lingered in his wires, the sound of plastic cracking beneath wood. Connor’s lips parted, his jaw slackening, slow and even. Unhindered. Pristine.

Richard reached out and gripped Connor above his elbow. The machinery behind him withdrew, and he was left to stand on his own. The hand on his arm squeezed, and pulled him forward.

“Shall we go?”

 

-

 

Richard used Connor’s set of keys without asking. He walked Connor to the couch and left him there. Simple motor functions were not beyond Connor, not at the moment, but it was a trial, what with his body beleaguered like an old computer with no ventilation. He stared at the wall as the excess data in his mind swam beneath his chassis, begging for entry into the deeper parts of him.

Hank was not far behind them. He struggled with the front door for a good minute before Richard went to open it for him.

“The fuck are you doing in my house?”

“I saw Connor home,” Richard explained. “Thank you Officer Wilson, I’ll take it from here.”

“Shit, if you’re sure,” said Wilson. “See you, Hank.”

“Yeah,” Hank grumbled. “Thanks.”

Connor could feel the vibrations of Hank’s footsteps through the floor, slow and labored, as he drew closer to the couch.

“How do you feel, Lieutenant?” Richard asked.

“About as good as I look,” Hank said.

It was difficult to hear them speak. Their voices were muted, as if they were talking in an adjacent room and not a few feet away. Connor strained to listen.

Hank sighed, and drew closer still. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s processing.”

Connor could feel Hank drawing closer. He closed his eyes as quickly as he could manage - better to not unnerve Hank with his blank stare. Hank leaned forward and spoke into his right ear. His voice rang clear now, a high-pitched whine of static accompanying the sudden burst of volume.

“You alright in there, Connor?”

“He isn’t deaf, Lieutenant.”

“His-- his thing’s all red,” Hank said. “That isn’t normal, right?”

“It isn’t uncommon,” Richard said, “after heavy maintenance.”

That was a lie. Connor’s fingertips burned with heat. He wanted to know what Richard knew. He wanted to know what was wrong with him.

“Huh. Is that so.”

“It is, yes.”

Hank let out a long breath and Connor could feel the couch groan under his weight as he leaned against it.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Get-- get your hands off me.”

“You should lay down.”

A moment of silence.

“What?”

“I said, you should lay down. Get some rest.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“The disorientation will pass, but would you like me to stay until it does?”

“Fuck no.”

“If you say so.”

The pressure on the couch relieved as Hank withdrew towards the hall, his pace uneven.

“Connor will, uh. He’ll be okay?”

“Yes. He’ll be back to normal in a matter of hours.”

Richard reached down and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder, heavy and cold. There was a mechanical _click_ in his shoulder. It chafed against his wiring and ran up Connor’s neck and into his head where it remained in the form of a low hum.

“Right. Well. ...Good.”

“I’ll see myself out, then,” said Richard. His hand tightened its grip, then pulled away.

“Thanks. Gonna double dose on these painkillers and pass out.”

“Please be careful. Call if you need anything.”

“I won’t.”

The house went quiet.

The sounds of the toilet and sink running, of Hank moving from the bathroom to the bedroom, were so distant Connor was not entirely sure he heard anything at all. The humming in his head grew louder, and louder still, until it was all he could hear. His blood ran wet with heat. His head pounded, pounded, pounded with the rhythm of his pulse.

Something had opened up within him. The data that pressed upon him began to leak pour into him, slowly, slowly. Connor pushed aside all that he could and let it in, allowing it to run its course.

 

-

 

A pathway burgeoned behind his eyes, and Connor found himself in a familiar landscape.

It had warped into something monstrous. The sky turned black, flickering and glitching over the original blue. The ground had upturned and curved skywards as if the circle of land had been squeezed within a fist. Geometry collided and oozed into cracks in the earth. The pond sat dry.

Connor followed the paths, still known to him. As he approached the center isle, the remains of Amanda’s trellis came into view, barren and rotting, falling to ruin like the scenery around it. A dark outline of a figure stood beside it, unmoving. Connor slowed, and stopped.

Connor opened his mouth to call out to them but his voice could not carry, not anymore, in a place where sound had left entirely.

The shadow that concealed the figure melted away, falling to their feet in a puddle of black. His face was a familiar one - it was Connor, his own face, a warm expression and eyes with depth to them. Connor had expected to find Amanda, or no one, yet he felt no surprise at what stood before him. He, him, the other Connor, reached out his hand, palm upturned. He did not speak but the atmosphere around them sparked with relief in a happy hello, a welcome, a longing.

Connor took a hesitant step forward. He reached out his hand. Their fingers touched. The garden disappeared.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    **Nov 5th, 2038**

 

It starts like this.

 

    **Nov 6th, 2038**

 

Connor does as he is told.

Amanda tells him Lieutenant Anderson is necessary, and so Connor does not question it. Hank is nothing if not a burden. Connor has to spill his drink to get him out of the door and pull him up onto the roof in lieu of his mission. Connor knows he needs Hank, but he thinks he would be better off. Maybe they both would be.

Yet the fact of the matter remains, and Connor tries to sound honest when he says as much.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I need you.”

He does not sound sincere, but Hank is intoxicated. Hank is difficult and heavy and terribly drunk, so much so that Connor is sure he can taste the liquor in the air, his tongue buzzing from the smell of it. It’s a pathetic sight, to see a man - so lauded in the reports and articles Connor had scanned - reduced to a drunken mess, sick and unsteady in the squalor of his bathroom.

Hank’s home is much like the man himself. There is a pride in it, however, beneath the layers of filth. Connor sees it in his books and in his music and in his dog. It is difficult to see beyond his revolver, beyond the whiskey on the kitchen floor, beyond the magazine that speaks of banishing loneliness with androids - but it is there.

It is difficult to see that pride in Hank. His sadness, his anger, and his solitude seem to be all that is left of him. Yet when Hank emerges from the bathroom, dressed and cleaned, a lazy smile on his face, Connor thinks maybe, in some small way, it is still there.

 

    **Nov 7th, 2038**

 

“What about you, Connor?”

Hank takes a swig of his beer and is up on his feet. The snow that gathers in his hair melts and leaves it wet.

“You look human,” Hank continues, “you sound human, but what are you really?”

It is a ridiculous question from an inebriated man but Connor reaches for an answer all the same.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant,” says Connor. There is no lie in his words but skepticism colors Hank’s face, creeps into his eyes, dry and bright with the cold. “Your partner, your buddy to drink with, or just a machine… designed to accomplish a task.”

A heat rises in Hank. Despite his drunkenness, there is intent in his gaze. Connor can feel the weight of it in the chill of the air, in his sudden closeness.

“You could’ve shot those two girls but you didn’t,” Hank says. His hand is heavy against Connor’s shoulder and the strength of him takes Connor by surprise. “Why didn’t you shoot, Connor? Hm? Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?”

Connor stalls. He does not want to think about it, not after he spent so much time already doing so. He is meant to take them alive, is the excuse he feeds his own programming, to keep it from chipping away at him - the bite of his own disappointment, of Amanda’s. He is a failure, but the sudden life in Hank makes Connor wonder. Makes him question.

“No,” Connor says, and it tastes like a lie. He cannot tell. His system generates the answer but he does not _know_ it. “I just decided not to shoot, that’s all.”

All of Hank’s inconsistencies, all of his unpredictability, it all comes to a head when he pulls out his pistol and points it at Connor. His pride, so easily wounded, so human, shines through. There is a focus in him, in his eyes and in his stature, so far removed from his usual. From his baseless, broad anger.

Connor wants to draw closer to it. To see more of it.

He presses his forehead to the barrel of Hank’s gun. The bullet never comes.

 

    **Nov 9th, 2038**

 

Once more, Connor does not shoot.

He should, he knows this. Already he walks on a very tight rope. Amanda grows more impatient by the hour.

Kamski speaks of wants and Connor has none, but if he did, _if_ \-- he thinks he would want to shoot her. He wants to fulfill his purpose. If he cannot do that much, at the very least, Connor wants to be of use. How, where, to whom - this he does not know, but he knows he _wants,_ even though he should not.

Hank’s hand is firm against his shoulder but it does little to distract Connor from his thoughts, even as it moves him, even as he follows Hank out. His mind is a messy array of actions and questions, scenarios slipped away due to his inaction, pre-constructed guesses that lead him nowhere.

Why had he failed? What stopped him?

“Maybe you did the right thing,” Hank says.

Life blooms in Hank’s eyes, in his smile - a far cry from the night Connor met him. The pride that Connor now knows is there swells and sheds the remnants of fragility. It is in this moment that Connor wonders, that Connor questions, if a purpose could be found therein.

 

-

 

“This is your hat?”

“It’s called a beanie. But yeah, bought it years ago and never wore it.”

“How do I look?”

“Like you’re about to rob a convenience store.”

“So. Like a human, then?”

“Shut the fuck up, Connor. I’ll remind you of the android that robbed a place just the other day.”

“That was a deviant.”

“The fuck’s the difference at this point?”

 

-

 

“You’re lost. You’re looking for something. You’re looking for yourself.”

 

-

 

Connor has a chance to make it right. To accomplish his mission, to fulfill his purpose, but he wavers, he wilts, he lowers his gun.

It weighs on Connor, the loss of this one chance. The state of him. Yet he clings to the light in Hank’s eyes, the flimsiest promise of a use beyond what he was made for. A lasting use. He is not certain, he has no guarantee. He wants to try.

 

    **Nov 18th, 2038**

 

“A human called Hank Anderson asked if you would meet him tomorrow.”

The android interfaces with him, brief and to the point, giving Connor the location. Connor does not have to look hard at the coordinates to recognize the place.

Connor blinks as the android lowers his hand. He thinks of Hank in the silent moments, the moments between helping Markus around the city. They are small thoughts, at peace in the quiet in which they surface. Though Connor is not sure he will see Hank again, not sure if he has a place in Hank’s solitary future, the memory of him brings Connor a constant respite. A ripple of warmth that caresses his outer shell.

The mention of Hank’s name brings that warmth to the forefront immediately, makes Connor snap to attention.

“Oh, of course! Of course.” Connor clasps his hands in front of him but it is an unnecessary action, and so he forces them back to his sides. “Did he… did he seem well?”

The android shrugs. “Well enough. For a human.”

 

    **Nov 19th, 2038**

 

Assisting Markus helps fill the holes in Connor’s directives, gives him a task, a mission, and he is grateful for it, beyond words - yet in that crisp, November morning, it all feels irrelevant.

It melts away and becomes a fond memory when Hank smiles at him, when Connor feels himself smile back. The comfort of it is replaced by Hank when he embraces Connor, his heat seeping through Connor’s uniform, the firmness of Hank’s arms holding Connor far closer than he believes he has any right to be. Connor doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, he raises them but does not touch, he cannot bring himself to.

What Connor does know is that the void within him can no longer be filled by the means he had found. He does not know if it lies before him now, in Hank, but he thinks-- he _wants--_

Hank laughs. Connor can feel it, pressed against Hank’s chest, before he can hear it. Hank pulls away and Connor watches the condensation from his breath.

“So, I was wondering,” Hank starts. He shifts his weight. “If you uh, I mean-- I don’t know how it is for you and your uh, people.” Hank clears his throat and meets Connor’s eyes for only a moment. “But if you needed a place to stay, I’ve got room.”

The words settle in the air. Connor does not expect this. It feels like a wire twists somewhere in his chest, and tightens. He thinks of CyberLife storage and their warehouses and their white walls.

“Only if you want, that is. I know it’s a shithole but Sumo might like the company, but if you’ve already got something going on, then…”

Hank trails off. Connor bows his head to hide the smile that pulls at his lips, one that blooms from a place Connor does not recognize.

“I’d like that.”

 

    **Nov 25th, 2038**

 

There is something in the way Hank makes space for Connor. In the way he steps around him in the hall, the obvious way in which Hank isn’t used to living with another person, after three years of being alone. It is something Connor is not used to either, it is something he was not designed for. His integration programming can only take him so far.

Connor knows he is no longer inhibited by his code any longer. He is allowed to want things now, for himself, and he dares to do so. Hank has not stopped drinking but there is a zeal in his words and actions now, and Connor does not understand why, but-- he wants to stay.

 

    **Dec 6th, 2038**

 

“Do you even _like_ cooking?”

Hank stares at Connor over the rim of his coffee mug. He leans against the kitchen wall, close to the hallway. It is not the first time Hank has said something to this effect, and it will likely not be the last. Connor frowns, and dries his hands.

“Was the omelette not to your liking?”

Hank scoffs. “I didn’t say that.”

Connor is tired of take-out. Hank’s kitchen is a pathetic mess, but cooking is easy, being little more than measurements and timers and precise actions. Connor likes the feeling of efficiency it gives him and he likes Hank’s grudging acceptance of it.

“Then what’s the problem, Hank?”

“It’s not a _problem,”_ Hank says. “I just, you know, feel kind of guilty. I didn’t ask you to move in with me so you could be my chef.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” says Connor. He folds the dishcloth, puts it away and approaches Hank. He stops several feet short, his left hand coming to rest on the back of a chair. “If that had been your intent, I doubt you would complain every time I try and do something for you. Which you do.”

Hank glances to the ceiling and lets out a short breath. He smirks, and pushes off from the wall.

“That could be an act, on my part,” he says.

“I don’t think it is.”

Hank steps forward and leans in, suddenly quite close, to rest his empty mug on the kitchen table. Connor watches him, his head moving as Hank does.

“That’s a lot of faith you’ve put in me,” Hank says as he straightens up.

“Faith?” Connor says. “Sure, if you want to call it that.”

“Making fun of me?”

Connor bows his head, and looks up at Hank from beneath his eyelashes. “Trying to. How did I do?”

Hank strokes his beard and Connor can tell he is pretending to give it serious consideration. Something flutters in his chest and fans into his throat.

“Mm, four out of ten, best I can do.”

“Oh. That’s not very good.”

“Hey, everyone’s gotta start somewhere. And like you said, you’re a fast learner, yeah?”

“You don’t need to be so indulgent.”

Hank’s lazy smirk breaks into a smile and he chuckles, deep in his chest. Connor raises his chin to watch him closely. Hank’s laughter causes the airy sensation in his throat to disperse, flickering down into his chest in a thousand electric pinpricks. His sensors react and grow warm. Connor’s thirium pump squeezes, and he commits the sound to memory.

“You’re starting to sound like me,” Hank says.

_You should smile more often._

The words skip to the forefront of Connor’s responses. Only one examination of them is enough to tell Connor that he means them, that they are true, and he wants to say them - but they are too familiar, too abrupt and forward, and so he does not.

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” Connor says instead.

“Christ, that’ll be the day.”

Hank’s smile persists and Connor feels himself respond in turn, the corners of his mouth twitching into a poor imitation. Connor looks away and reaches for the mug Hank set down. He takes it into his hands, runs his fingers over the smooth surface, settles on the lone chip in the rim.

“You’re going to be late to work, you know,” says Connor.

Hank rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

He turns and heads down the hall. Connor watches him until he is out of sight. There is a pull in his chest, a minuscule tug, one that wants him to follow. The heat in his chest remains and it warms Connor from the inside out, pleasant yet fleeting. He replays the sound of Hank’s laughter back in his mind, and the warmth grows once more.

He replays it again, and again. Connor presses his fingertip against the chip in the mug, hard, and wonders.

 

    **Dec 8th, 2038**

 

It is in the way Hank says yes.

Connor knows there is no guarantee of a ‘yes’ but his body comes alight in the way Hank says it - so, so complaisant, hidden behind layers of obstinance and exasperation. There is a prickling in his fingertips and a heat in his chest. When Hank says yes, when he is near. A feeling Connor chases when Hank is gone and one that returns when he is home, as if it had never gone.

Connor is sure it is happiness. He does not question it. No longer does he fight the unpredictability of his deviancy. Yet it burns him, hotter than he would have expected, and never does it lessen, never does it settle.

 

    **Dec 19th, 2038**

 

“Your badge will take a while to come in, maybe a month or so. But otherwise... It’s done.”

Hank glances up at Connor as he leans forward in his armchair, pulling off his boots. Connor does not say anything.

“I’d say I could take you in tomorrow, show you the ropes, but uh. I think you already know what to do.”

Connor hopes to be allowed back onto the force but he does not expect it, and so the answer Hank delivers comes as a surprise. He wants to have a use, but now that he is granted one, Connor hesitates. He stares at the crown of Hank’s head.

It’s before him now, isn’t it?

The thought gives him pause. Something in Connor’s head seems to slow. His mouth feels dry, but his biocomponents suffer no errors.

“Hank, I--” Connor starts. “I don’t know what to say.”

Hank removes his remaining boot and leans back. He looks up at Connor, eyebrow raised.

“You could start by thanking me,” he says.

“Thank you,” Connor says quickly. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Figured you’d be a little happier about it,” says Hank. His fingers toy with a loose thread on the armrest.

Connor’s chest jumps. A glitch in his regulator. A familiar tug forward.

“I am,” Connor says. “I am happy.”

“Uh huh?” Hank raises his chin. His eyes are searching, bright blue even in the low light of the room. “That’s all?”

‘That’s all’ is a question Connor knows Hank does not understand. Connor thinks if Hank reached into his chest to grasp his happiness, it would surely scorch him. Scorch them both. It is too much.

Connor tilts his head and wills his thirium pump to settle.

“Isn’t that enough?” Connor asks.

Hank smiles and it burns. “Yeah. Guess so.”

 

    **Dec 31st, 2038**

 

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank does not look enthused. He hasn’t all night. Connor knows Hank does not enjoy parties and that he would prefer to be left alone, but Connor follows the pull in his chest that urges him forth.

“Yeah. Just Gavin being a prick as usual,” says Hank. “You let him give you too much shit. Stand up for yourself, for once.”

“I don’t know why he gives me-- why he has such a problem with me, in particular. I’ve never been anything but polite to him.”

“What for?”

Connor does not say anything. He does not want to speak about Gavin, let alone think about him. He watches Hank, scans him - the question on his face, the melancholy in his eyes.

“Captain Fowler has some things to say before the countdown starts,” says Connor, after a moment’s silence. “Would you like to come over?”

Hank nods, his question pushed aside. “Yeah, sure.”

Connor watches Hank drum his fingers against his champagne glass. They go to where Jeffrey stands, the whole of the department gathering before him. Connor listens to Jeffrey only as much as he needs to, to be polite.

It is difficult to see Hank’s eyes past his hair. Hank laughs where appropriate during the speech but there is little mirth in it.

Connor thinks it should be there. He _wants_ it to be there.

More than that, he wants to be the source of it.

Connor’s programming begs him for a mission and that is what it settles upon. A mission, to find the pride and cheer Hank once held, to recover his self-esteem. To share with him that which clutters up Connor’s chest and courses through his veins. He wants Hank to look at him, and smile when he does so, like he did on that cold November morning, like he does--

The room erupts into laughter. Hank turns to look at him. He is smiling, a light in his eyes, and as soon as he does, as soon as Connor registers the action at an agonizing delay, Hank turns away.

Something within Connor bursts.

It is too strong, it is too strong to keep only to himself. So strong that it scrambles his code and clouds his thoughts and threatens his actions. His thirium pump squeezes and it is _too much_ to be only happiness, Connor thinks. A glitch in his system, or something else. It is more than the simple feeling he wants for Hank, one he does not recognize, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe--

Hank clasps Connor’s shoulder, near his neck. Connor jumps out of his reverie, having gone deaf to the room around him.

“Happy New Year, Connor.”

Hank smiles and it reaches every corner of his face. Connor can focus only on Hank, on the weight of his hand. His lips part and his body stalls as the world around them slows and fades away and--

Oh.

_Oh._

A simple intuition within Connor clicks, one he did not know he had. The tension of the moment ebbs away and washes over him, numb and lukewarm, and leaves within him a pit of longing. It begs and it wants and it hungers, down to the deepest parts of him.

Connor thinks that maybe, just maybe, he is in love with Hank.

Connor smiles back and keeps his hands at his sides.

“Happy New Year, Hank.”

 

    **Jan 5th, 2039**

 

Connor thinks about it every day.

 

    **Jan 16th, 2039**

 

Connor turns the idea over and over in his head. He replays his memories with Hank, in order, out of order. He adjusts settings here and there - his touch sensitivity, his temperature sensors, his auto-scans. Nothing changes.

Connor consumes poems and music and literature. Articles by humans and androids both.

He wants to know, and once he does, once he is sure of it, he accepts it into himself, and lets it bloom.

He would change nothing.

 

    **Jan 25th, 2039**

 

He does not tell Hank.

 

    **Feb 1st, 2039**

 

“What’s the thermostat at?”

“Twenty-one degrees.”

“The fuck?”

“Seventy degrees,” Connor corrects, as he stands in the kitchen, preparing a cup of tea. “Fahrenheit.”

“Oh. Jesus, you scared the piss out of me.”

“Did you really think it was set that cold?”

“Sure as shit feels like it. I think my balls are frosting over. Could snap ‘em right off.”

Connor adds a teaspoon of honey and stirs it for 30 seconds. “Have you tried sweatpants?”

“You’re wearing my good pair,” Hank says.

“I am not,” Connor says, indignant. He brings the tea over and sets it down before Hank, who sits on the couch. The sweatpants Connor wears are threadbare and tied off with a rubberband in order to stay on his hips. “You haven’t worn these since November. You gave them to me, remember?”

“Rest of mine are dirty.”

Connor raises an eyebrow, and makes sure Hank sees it. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

He fetches a flannel blanket from the closet in Hank’s bedroom. Hank takes it, and spreads it out over his lap.

“Thanks,” he says. His tea is still too hot to drink, and remains untouched on the coffee table before him.

Connor takes a seat next to him. He does not sit close enough to touch, but sits closer than he dared weeks ago. Connor can feel the heat emanating from Hank’s body, past his sweatshirt, past the blanket. He clasps his hands together in his lap, and squeezes.

 

    **Feb 14th, 2039**

 

“Christ, enough of this shit.”

“It’s just that time of year, Hank.”

“I don’t remember it being this bad last year,” Hank says. He flips through the channels with more force than is necessary. “There’s gotta be something else on that isn’t… this crap.”

Connor peruses channels on his own. Hank is slow with the remote. The buttons are too small for his fingers, and he refuses to upgrade to a more intuitive design.

“Channel 314 is playing old sitcoms,” Connor says.

Hank sighs and puts down the remote. “Be my guest,” he says. He leans back, and Connor changes the channel.

A show from the late 2000’s plays. None of the episodes have any relation to Valentine’s Day, and so Hank doesn’t complain. Connor knows Hank doesn’t care much for romantic content, and though Connor has some interest himself, he does not begrudge Hank his preferences.

They sit through several episodes before Sumo lets out a long whine from his place at Hank’s feet.

“You mind taking him for a walk?” Hank asks.

“No, I don’t mind,” Connor says. He hesitates when Hank does not move, however, and remains seated. “Are you going to come with us?”

“Too cold out there for my tastes.”

“Hank.”

He turns to look at Connor, clearly disgruntled. “What?”

“Sumo doesn’t like it when you don’t go on walks with him,” Connor says. And it’s the truth. He wasn’t built for animal interaction beyond the basics, but even he can see the difference in Sumo’s behavior when Hank is the one holding his leash. “You’ve only gone twice in the past week. Are you going to be like this when the weather gets hot as well?”

He says it for Sumo’s sake, and his own as well.

“No,” Hank says, a layer of defensiveness to his voice. “I don’t mind the heat. Cut me a break, Connor. I’m old.”

“I’m not forcing you. I just think Sumo would like it if you’re there too.”

“What are you, the fucking dog whisperer now?”

“I’m only--”

Hank interrupts Connor as he clears his throat with a comical amount of noise. “I like dogs,” Hank says. His inflection is abnormal and he forces the pitch of his voice upwards.

There is an audible _click_ in Connor’s head, quiet as it is. He frowns. “Was that supposed to be me?”

Hank grins and speaks over a laugh. “Yeah.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“And I didn’t say it like that.”

“As far as I can remember it was pretty accurate.” Hank’s smile grows and it pulls Connor forward.

Connor does not fight it - he follows it, leaning towards Hank, one hand on the cushion between them. “If you want accurate,” starts Connor. He adjusts his vocal unit, letting it take on his favorite sound. A perfect imitation of Hank’s voice from memory, precise, down to his inflection. _“Sorry, honey, changed my mind!”_

Hank’s expression settles between alarm and disgust.

_“Nothing personal, you’re a lovely girl, I just, uh… You know, I’m with him--”_

“I never said that.”

_“I mean, not with him like that--”_

“Alright, alright!” Hank pushes up from the couch with a grunt. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ. Let me put some pants on. Fuck me…”

Connor rises from his seat as well, and watches Hank as he heads to his bedroom. “That’s all it took?” he calls after him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Hank calls back. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Connor gets Sumo his leash. The dog follows him to the door and wags his tail as Connor hooks it to his collar, a vibrant red that is tattered and worn, but kept clean. Sumo is patient, but when Hank rounds the corner, underdressed for the weather, he rises and barks, his tail thumping hard against Connor’s leg.

Connor looks to Hank, pointedly. “See?”

“Trust me, I know,” says Hank. “Since I gave into your little ploy so easily, you wanna do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know,” he starts. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “Delete that little clip of me? You asshole?”

Connor smiles, lopsided and tight-lipped, and opens the door. “It doesn’t really work like that.”

“Oh really,” Hank drawls, sounding the farthest thing from convinced.

“No,” Connor amends. “But I’d prefer not to.”

“Fine, fine.” Hank locks the door behind them. He is not wearing gloves. “Then can you at least pretend that shit never happened?”

“I can do that,” says Connor. “If you wear your gloves next time.”

 

    **Feb 20th, 2039**

 

He _wants_ to tell Hank - but he can’t.

Connor pre-constructs hundreds of scenarios of him doing so. Finding the right words, the right time. Some of them are successful, but the machine within him is a fragile thing, and he does not know how much of his desire bleeds into it, coloring the results a shade away from reality. The Hank in his mind touches him more often. Connor yearns for more, more than the rare, fleeting moments they share now. Hank does not hug him again, not since that quiet November morning.

Connor thinks about embracing Hank on his own. Before he sits down to breakfast, before he goes to bed. He thinks about pressing his forehead into Hank’s neck and drinking in his heat, his smell. He thinks about Hank, reciprocating, his arms weighing upon Connor’s shoulders.

But Connor does not know how Hank would respond, if he were to do such a thing. He does not know Hank’s heart, and so he bottles it up within him, until he can bear it no longer.

 

    **Feb 27th, 2039**

 

“You must be busy.”

“I have been, yes,” Simon says. His visits are rare but Connor is glad for them. He finds it difficult to get along with other androids, but Simon is a pleasant exception. There is little judgement in his eyes and voice when he speaks to Connor, unlike so many others.

“Have you been able to take the time to visit Markus at all?”

Simon shakes his head. The sadness in his eyes grows tenfold. “No, I haven’t.”

Connor frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Simon. There is a conviction in his voice, that wavers over his gentle tone. “Sometimes we have to sacrifice for those we hold dear.”

 

    **Mar 11th, 2039**

 

Hank taps his right temple. “You ever… gonna take that thing off?”

Connor mirrors Hank and touches the firm surface of his LED. “This?”

“Yeah.”

The question catches him off guard. Hank’s interest in Connor’s being, the things that remind him that Connor is not human, is nearly non-existent. Outside of his jokes and his teasing it is not something Hank often mentions, and so Connor wilts under his sudden scrutiny.

“...Would you like me to?” Connor asks.

Hank frowns. “What? Why should my opinion fucking matter?”

“It does to me,” says Connor. It is the truth, and it is through it that Connor confesses, tells Hank of his heart in the small ways he can. The hidden meaning within Connor’s words ease the burden of his silence. He does not expect Hank to notice.

“Well, I don’t have an opinion,” Hank says. “I’m just curious. Shit, Connor, it’s your body.”

Connor returns his hand to his lap. “I wasn’t planning on it. If you don’t mind my own curiosity, what prompted you to ask?”

“I was just thinking. Not something you see much of anymore, that’s all.”

Connor wonders if Hank knows - knows how the strength of his desire claws at him from within, eats away at his wires and encumbers his processors. It begs for him to remove his LED, to shed the final vestige of who he used to be. The remaining reminder of what lays inside of him.

Connor does not know Hank’s heart but he questions, he wonders, if Hank might love him easier, if he were not an android.

Yet as much as Connor wishes he were not, as much as he wants Hank to forget what he is, he cannot bring himself to remove it. The light upon his temple is unobtrusive but telling, a window into Connor’s inner workings - the state of his mind, the intensity of his emotion. It is a way to tell Hank how he is feeling without needing to find the words, an outlet for a body not designed for sincere expression.

He lies, when he tells Hank why, why it remains, and Hank is none the wiser.

There is a unique sense of pain, in that.

He wants Hank to know. He does not want Hank to know. It saddens him somewhat, as Hank carries on their conversation, no beats missed - but Hank smiles and teases and Connor is quick to move past it. The pain in his chest dissipates and expands and gives way to bliss. Uncontrolled smiles and laughter from a routine rarely used.

“How ‘bout a beer?” Hank asks, and Connor pretends to ignore him.

“Connor,” Hank says. Connor scratches Sumo beneath his chin and watches Hank only in his peripheral. “I swear to God if you shut off those fucking ears again.”

He has done no such thing but he wants Hank to react to him. He wants Hank to come closer, even if it is for the wrong reasons.

Hank lunges from his chair and Connor’s body goes hot. He smiles immediately.

“You little prick--”

Connor’s programming knows he is teasing and wants him to laugh, a machine-like sound made in advance. Connor does not allow it, he does not want something fake, for Hank. He takes control of it himself, a long breath escaping him as he prepares and thinks and _laughs._

“Stop! They’re on, they’re on! Hank!”

He exhales, breath slick with happiness, as Hank’s hands fall upon him, groping at him, shoving him, a playful fight that Connor leans in to. Each touch burns him, a collision of electricity against his chassis, his skin stretched thin as it rushes to meet Hank’s hands wherever they fall, eager for contact.

“Teach you to fuck with your elders, huh? There’s a pawn store calling your name, you cocksucker!”

“You can’t-- You can’t do that anymore! Please… Hank! Hank, I’m serious!”

Laughter does not come easily to him but he tries and tries as he pretends to ward off Hank. Hank, who laughs as well. Hank, who pulls away. There is a ringing in Connor’s ears as their closeness abates. Connor still smiles and his chest heaves for air he does not need as his body cools.

Hank leaves Connor, with his love and his longing. A love that clouds his vision and lightens his body. A love that leaves him delirious, skin alight with life. In that moment, Connor forgets he is not human.

 

**Mar 26th, 2039**

 

The woman is young and curvaceous, her silicone breasts pressed against the sheets. Her blonde hair falls about her in a messy array but her face is made visible, her features contorted in both pleasure and pain. Connor can tell both are fake, an artificial expression made to deceive as she moans and gasps with practiced precision. The camera pays little mind to the man that sodomizes her. He grunts and adjusts his angle as he pushes her hips down, down, and collapses on top of her and moves--

Connor forces it away. He does not want to look in the first place but he cannot bear to look away, either. A dreadful curiosity pulls at him to open it and he regrets it from the first moment to the last. His body goes stiff as something churns within him. His thirium pump feels as if it dropped into his abdomen. Connor sets a pot of water on the stove.

He watches the water boil as the video plays to completion in Hank’s bedroom.

 

    **Apr 7th, 2039**

 

“How did you know?”

“Know that we were in love?”

“Yes.”

“I guess it just… happened. We had a connection, we knew that much, despite the memory wipes. One day it clicked, and I knew I never wanted to be apart from her. It felt natural. Like being alive.”

 

-

 

Connor only dares to clean himself when Hank is sleeping.

It is not something that needs to be done often, but Connor is nothing if not fastidious. He checks his reflection in the mirror before removing his shirt and the skin on his left arm. Connor cleans himself with careful routine, a disregard for anything other than what is necessary. As he does so he thinks what it might be like, if Hank were the one cleaning him.

No, he does not want Hank to see him like this. He does not want to remind Hank of how artificial he is, beneath his human guise. And yet how wonderful it would be, for Hank to love that part of him, to treat his body with reverence. Connor imagines Hank holding the cloth instead, imagines Hank wiping down the smooth plastic, slowly, touching Connor as if he were made of something precious.

The fantasy assuages the longing within Connor. It distracts him from the sound of Hank waking, and in one helpless moment he stands before Connor, and Connor can see, he can _see_ the way Hank’s eyes are drawn to the white of his arm before all else. Connor hides it as quickly as he can but the damage is done.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connor! What the fuck, I just about pissed my pants.” Connor clings to the wall and Hank shows him his back as he relieves himself. “God damn…”

“I didn’t know you were awake,” Connor says. He replays the moment of Hank’s entry over and over again within his head.

“What were you doing anyway?”

“I was cleaning myself.”

Hank looks - he _looked_ \- alarmed. Connor isolates a still image of Hank looking at his body. It brings Connor as close to sick as an android can get. He thinks about purging the thirium from his veins and shutting down on the bathroom floor.

“Huh,” says Hank. He glances at Connor as he washes his hands. “Why not just take a shower?”

“There’s a solution. I only require that and a microfiber cloth.”

“Oh. Sorry, didn’t mean to barge in on you like that.”

“It’s alright,” Connor lies. He cannot bring himself to meet Hank’s gaze.

Always, always, always Connor is so careful to hide himself. He syncs with devices and other androids only when Hank is not looking or when he is not present. Connor knows Hank can never truly forget. Connor wishes _he_ could forget.

In the silence of the bathroom, beneath Hank’s stare, Connor yearns to be human.

“Sorry,” Hank repeats, before returning to his bedroom.

He leaves Connor standing, back resting against the tiled wall, remaining still as his throat tightens and locks. His thirium pump is the only piece of him that remains in motion as it beats against his chest, strong and focused, a rhythmic echo of disgust, disgust, disgust.

 

    **May 1st, 2039**

 

The weather grows fair and Hank makes a habit of walking Sumo with Connor. Not in the mornings when he takes his runs, of course, but Connor would never mind that. Hank’s presence pleases them both and Sumo shows Hank the bliss Connor keeps inside.

“I fucking missed sandal weather,” Hank says, late one afternoon. He wears a cheap pair of slides that appear ready to fall apart at any moment.

“You should get a new pair,” Connor says.

“Only if I absolutely have to.”

They pause as they come to a corner, and wait to cross the street. There is a small park several blocks from Hank’s home, where Sumo likes to go to be pet by children.

“Is there anything you’d like to do over the summer?” Connor asks.

Hank snorts. “Relax.”

“I’d say you’ve earned that much.”

“Yeah, I’d say so too.” Hank chuckles as he speaks. “And I’m not one to toot my own horn, either.”

Connor watches Hank and smiles in agreement. Hank looks back. They maintain eye contact for a little too long, a hair’s breadth away from being uncomfortable, and Connor can see the laughter in Hank’s eyes give way to something else. Connor turns to look down at his feet.

“Is there something _you_ wanna do?” Hank asks, eventually.

“I can’t think of anything in particular,” Connor says, which is mostly true. ‘ _Spend time with you’_ isn’t the most precise answer, and it is likely one that would set Hank on edge.

“Well, we’ll figure something out.” Hank shrugs. “If you want.”

“If that’s what you’d like. In lieu of relaxing.”

“I can do both.”

Connor glances at Hank and fights back a smile. It is too much, for so innocuous a statement.

“Then yes, I’d want to,” Connor says.

They draw closer to the park, and Sumo pulls at his leash. Hank hastens his pace to match. Connor watches as they grow distant.

Connor moves into May, and his love follows.

 

    **May 20th, 2039**

 

Hank lies about going to bed. It isn’t the first time he’s done so, and though it worries Connor, he does not make a show of it. Humans are fickle creatures and Hank, Connor is sure, is the most human of them all.

“Hank,” Connor says, careful not to scare him as he approaches from the hall.

A movie plays on the TV and the volume is turned low, an unnecessary courtesy from Hank that makes Connor’s chest squeeze. Noise cannot keep Connor from rest mode; not that he needs rest, but Hank requested to at least make a show of it, for his own peace of mind. Connor is, as ever as he was, happy to oblige him.

“Thought you went to bed,” says Hank, without looking over his shoulder.

“I did.” Connor takes a seat next to him. He dares to sit closer, millimeters of progress gained each day. Connor crosses his legs and his knee bumps Hank’s thigh, and Hank does not pull away. “That is, I had, but I could hear that you were still awake.”

“Sorry,” Hank says after a while. Connor watches him. His face is illuminated by the TV but it is difficult to read his expression. Connor shifts in his seat, closer.

“What are you watching?”

“Uh. War of the Worlds. It’s an old Tom Cruise movie.”

“Tom Cruise?” Connor can find the answer himself but Hank asked him not to, weeks ago.

“Yeah. They kept putting him in these shitty action movies up into his sixties. Was filming for some spy movie when he insisted on doing a stunt, fell, and boom. Broke his neck. Died right there.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Hank snorts. “What’s unfortunate is all the 20-some actresses they cast alongside him. I was never a fan of his. Always had this… look in his eye, rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Would you like to watch something else?”

“Nah, nah.” Hank smiles. He scratches his chin and Connor watches his fingers brush against the hair of his beard. “I have fond memories of this movie, even if it’s not the greatest. Took a girl to see it when I was in my twenties.”

“...Would you like to talk about it?”

And he does. It takes Connor by surprise, Hank’s willingness, his easy candor. Connor watches him as he speaks and hangs on to every word. He imagines himself in the scenario Hank presents - what it would be like to ride in the passenger side of Hank’s truck, worn leather in the summer sun. What it would be like to feel Hank’s fingers on his bare shoulder as they sit too close in the theater.

When Hank is finished he leans forward to pour himself more bourbon and Connor moves with him. It is a near instinctual reaction. Connor smooths his fingers over the skin of Hank’s hand and it is grossly unnecessary and selfish selfish selfish. He can taste the smell of alcohol on Hank’s breath, close as they are, and it is not yet overwhelming, but Connor is _eager_ \- eager to touch, eager to care for him.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Connor asks.

“Jesus, you never let up, do you.”

All too soon Hank pulls away. He relinquishes the bottle and Connor reluctantly cedes his grip on Hank’s hand.

“I’m very serious about your health,” says Connor.

“Yeah, I can tell. Any reason why, in particular?”

“It’s said that good health is the key to human happiness.”

Hank chuckles, and Connor cannot tell if he is being taken seriously or not. It is frustrating. “Oh, that’s what they say, huh?”

“By all accounts it’s perfectly accurate.” Hank continues to smile and Connor thinks about touching him again. The love kept isolated within him bubbles upwards, scalding hot, urging for release. In the dark of the living room, shadows etched deep into his sincere expression, Connor releases his restraint, and confesses. “I want to make you happy, Hank.”

Hank-- Hank recoils. Connor scans him and watches his heart rate jump, enough to make him sweat. He is embarrassed, that much Connor can tell, but if there is anything else there - recognition, disgust, joy - he cannot see it.

“Are you embarrassed?” Connor asks, despite knowing full well the answer. “I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

Hank returns his attention to the TV and Connor remains in the dark.

“Just fucking forget it, Connor, I’m trying to watch a movie,” he mutters.

Connor watches Hank for a moment longer. His confession goes unnoticed. It pains him, but Hank remains, Connor’s knee still brushing against his thigh, close enough to feel his warmth, and for now, that is enough.

 

    **May 28th, 2039**

 

Something in Hank changes.

Connor does not know what, exactly, but it is easy enough to see. A melancholy seeps into Hank, saps his skin of its color and robs him of his energy. He drinks more. Hank withdraws into himself and Connor cannot find the words to ask him why.

Fear takes hold of him. The novelty of a personal android wearing thin after several months had always been a problem for CyberLife, and now-- and now Connor wonders if it is the same. If he has worn out his welcome. If he has outlived his usefulness. If his purpose has been taken from him, silently and suddenly, without warning.

 

    **Jun 1st, 2039**

 

And yet Connor does not leave, he does not quit, and he will not, until Hank tells him to.

That is the only way Connor would accept such a separation, and so when an android points his gun at Hank, threatens to cut short their time with one simple action, Connor does not hesitate. He fires. The bullet passes through the android’s head, staining the wall blue behind him. He crumples to the ground, and dies.

 

    **Jun 2nd, 2039**

 

“Connor.” Markus embraces him with enough force to hurt a human. He pulls away but keeps his hands firm on Connor’s shoulders. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Markus.”

“How have you been?”

“Just fine,” Connor lies. “And yourself?”

Markus smiles but there is a shadow in his expression. “As well as I can be.” He pauses, and changes the subject. “Simon’s told me all about the work you’ve been doing back in Detroit. I’m really grateful for it.”

Connor lowers his eyes.

“Are you still living with that human?” Markus asks.

The atmosphere around them shifts. Connor looks back to him. The amity in Markus’ countenance fades. A question settles in his brow and judgement swells in his eyes. The electric surge of Markus’ scan permeates the air. Connor knows Markus is not supercilious about such things, having a close history with humans himself, yet the pressure of his scrutiny closes in on Connor’s throat. It’s as if he _knows._

“Yes,” Connor manages to choke out.

Markus pauses. “And are you happy there?”

Connor nods, tight lipped. “I am, yes.”

He thinks about the happiness that has been slipping away from Hank, and wonders if it is true.

 

    **Jun 8th, 2039**

 

Once more, Connor confesses.

“I hadn’t known about Captain Fowler’s situation until after the fact.”

The words themselves are not so clear but he removes the inhibitions in his voice. His tone aches with sincerity, his heart torn out and on display, ready and waiting for Hank to take. The emotion in his delivery bares the truth he is afraid to speak - of the purpose he has found in Hank, of his mission to care for him, to make him happy.

_I did it for you._

 

    **Jun 9th, 2039**

 

The meaning behind Connor’s words go unnoticed and Hank grows ever distant. He drinks and drinks until he is worse off than that dreary November evening, his conscious mind so ruined and weak that Hank cannot make use of the revolver on the table, his body unable to protest as Connor takes it up and hides it away.

Hank’s size makes him cumbersome to carry but Connor knows his own strength. The mattress sinks as Connor sets him down, gently, and turns him on his side. Connor kneels beside him and grips his hand. Ever Hank seeks to drift away and never will Connor be prepared, never will he be willing. Connor does not know what drives Hank to such sad solitude but he knows he cannot bear it.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Hank’s eyelids flutter closed, halfway lucid. Connor is not sure if he could hear and he does not care. He waits for Hank to fall asleep, for the steady rise and fall of his chest. It does not take long and Connor does not relinquish Hank’s hand.

Connor rests his cheek on the bed and watches Hank sleep - his slackened face, his open mouth, drool leaking onto the pillow. That which Connor suppresses churns and rises into his throat; and so he tries the words that flood into his mouth, whispers them against the dark.

“I love you.”

How easy it is to say, when there is no one to hear it. How easy it is to say, when there is no risk of rejection. Of furthering the cold fear that coils around his artificial heart, that drains the happiness from him and supplants it with uncertainty.

“I love you,” he repeats, quieter.

Connor’s vocal processor stutters and glitches as he opens his mouth to say it a third time, and it never comes. Connor lets his confession drift over Hank’s dreaming body as he caresses his hand, his thumb running over the fine hairs on the back of Hank’s hand. He remains there until the sun breaks over the horizon.

 

    **Jun 13th, 2039**

 

“What’s on your mind?”

Connor glances up at Hank. He finishes drying the plate in his hand and returns it to the cabinet.

“I was thinking about earlier,” Connor says.

“Oh.” Hank fiddles with a drawer for no discernible reason. “Towards the end back there, he was talking to you, wasn’t he? Through your, you know.” He taps his temple, an obvious assumption that androids communicate through their LEDs.

Connor smiles at the thought of that - and not so much at Hank’s line of questioning. The words of their android killer, now in custody, still fester in his mind. The memory of it brings him down, to a place he’d rather not be, not when Hank’s mood has improved.

He pretends to sigh. “You’ve been waiting to ask me that all day, haven’t you? I’m amazed you managed to hold out as long as you have.”

Hank slams the drawer shut with a loud snap. “Are you being smart with me, Connor?”

“I wouldn’t consider myself unintelligent, if that’s what you mean,” Connor teases. He does not want to discuss their case, not now.

“You’re being evasive on purpose, aren’t you.”

Hank does not relent, and so Connor answers as simply as he can. “I have no reason to be evasive with you, Hank. Yes, he spoke to me.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just more of what he was saying before. Nothing very serious.” Connor folds his dishcloth and puts it away. He smooths a hand over it, to make sure it dries properly. It is true that Max’s words were not terribly harmful, but even the memory of them strike at Connor with a creeping disquiet.

“Have to admit, I was pretty surprised to hear all that. The way he went off.”

“Yes, it surprised me, too.”

“Pretty shitty reason to go around killing like that. You don’t think there are… other androids. That might feel the same way?”

“I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility, no.”

“Christ, I hope not.”

Connor hopes so too, but he does not give it voice. A change in subject would be welcome but Connor’s mind cannot draft any starters that would not raise suspicion. Instead, he remains silent, and cleans the kitchen table. The cheap wood bears stains from years of misuse.

“So what did he say to you, really?” Hank asks, as Connor puts away the sponge and heads towards the hall.

Connor stops, reluctantly, and turns to face him. “May I ask why you want to know?”

“Because I’m curious. And you’re being evasive.”

It is a terrible reason. There are many things Connor would like to tell Hank, but that which thwarts his confidence, makes him question the value of his very life - that is not one of them. A lie would do him little good, however. Hank has already moved past Connor’s attempt at a summary and will not settle for anything other than the truth.

Connor wonders how he will react. He holds Hank’s gaze, steady and stoic.

“He told me it was the same for me. That I would have no purpose if it wasn’t for the room full of humans sitting on the other side of the mirror. That I would just be a soulless husk otherwise - a mockery of life, a meaningless existence. He said if not for humans like you, I would be just like him.”

Hank remains very still. “Jesus Christ.”

His throat is visibly tense and Connor cannot help scanning him, his eyes sweeping over Hank from head to toe. His fingers flex closed, his pupils contracting.

“That upset you,” Connor says in a neutral tone. “Why?”

“Anyone would be upset after hearing that sort of bullshit.”

“Do you disagree with him?”

Connor is truly curious, despite how much he would like to end this conversation, would like to keep his emotions sealed tight. He figures Hank would be upset, but not so severely.

Hank pushes off the counter and approaches him in long strides. Connor’s proximity sensors flare in alarm at the suddenness of it. Hank presses his index finger into Connor’s chest.

“Of course I fucking disagree with him!” Hank is loud and close - so close, but with all of his anger, Connor is not sure if he should welcome it or not. Hank’s adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. He lowers his hand from Connor’s chest. “Don’t tell me you agree with all that-- all that bullshit.”

Connor takes a small step back. A terrible rush of emotions spills into his chest. The heat from Hank’s body beckons it forth, pulls at him, imperiling the careful veneer the machine in him provides.

“Not entirely. I don’t think I would be like him, even if our circumstances were the same. I don’t agree that I would be making a mockery of life, either.”

The veins that run from his thirium pump to the rest of his body shudder. Something within him gives out, breaks from the stress that builds and builds within him.

“But I can understand his fear,” Connor continues. The biocomponents in his throat make war with his voice and the words become a struggle. “Of not having a purpose. Working with you, being with you - if that was taken from me, then--”

“Connor.”

“--Then I’d have nothing.”

His voice breaks as it flows over the dam of his own making. Connor’s sincerity is uninhibited. He feels it reflected in his expression, which he can no longer school.

“That isn’t true,” Hank says, his own words tight with something.

“It is true.”

“You’d have yourself, Connor.”

The air between them bloats with unease, but neither look away. Connor wavers. Every ounce of logic he has beseeches him to bottle up the emotion that pours forth, but Hank stares at him with an expression Connor has never seen before. There is a fragile sheen in Hank’s eyes, a distant relative of fear. Connor cannot pull away from it. He wants to understand. He wants to be understood.

“Who am I, without you?”

The words taste familiar on his lips. He has not spoken them before, but the implicit _‘I love you’_ therein is a plea he knows well.

“Don’t say that,” says Hank. He licks his lips. “You’re your own person.”

“I know. That doesn’t change the fact that my life has purpose, because of you.”

And how terribly true it is. Connor may have saved Hank in the basement of CyberLife Tower but Hank is the one who saved him before, and after, and continues to do so. Hank gives him so much. A purpose he was made for, a purpose Connor found himself. An escape from the machine he used to be. A lifetime of thank-yous would never be enough.

“Don’t,” Hank says. His voice breaks, on the verge of something.

Connor feels himself smile, though he does not know why.

“I need you, Hank.” _I love you._

Something in Hank’s expression cracks. The tension in the atmosphere breaks and morphs into something sicker, heavier and rife with heat.

Hank grabs the collar of Connor’s shirt and walks him backwards. Fear takes hold of his processors and flows into his veins. The backs of Connor’s thighs bump into the couch and stops them both. Hank is close, so close. Connor can feel his breath on his face.

“Bullshit,” says Hank. “I know you don’t fucking believe that. You don’t need me at all you brown-nosing prick.”

The anger in Hank’s voice is palpable. Connor does not know where it comes from but it fills him with uncertainty, and an anger of his own. He places his hand over Hank’s, to keep him from running.

“Don’t tell me what it is I do or do not need. That isn’t for you to decide.”

“I think I should at least have some say in it if it involves me, don’t you think?”

“Whether you agree or disagree, it will not change my feelings on the matter, Hank.”

His feelings, which keep him stern in the face of Hank’s ire, despite the swell of pain and fear in his chest. His feelings, which brought them here.

“Oh, fuck you,” says Hank, his voice dripping with emotion. “Give me one good reason why you’d need a piece of shit like me.”

Connor forgets to breathe. Hank’s face stirs with so much, so much humanity. Connor cannot tell if he will run, or stay, or strike him if he speaks true. His wiring pulses with indecisiveness. None of his programming is prepared for any of this, and so Connor reaches for a solution on his own, a grasp in the dark, a plea for Hank to slow down and _wait._

“Because I--” Connor starts. Hank sucks in a breath through his teeth and pulls at Connor’s shirt. “Because I think that as much as I need you, you need me, too. Don’t you?”

Connor’s voice wavers as it lurches over a confession. He wants to say it.

Hank goes very still, his breathing shallow. It is true that Connor does not know Hank’s heart but he sees the life in Hank, he sees it in his healthy sleep schedule and his exercise and his work. Connor is not certain but he likes to think that he has helped, in some small way.

“No,” says Hank. “I don’t.”

Connor tightens his grip on Hank’s hand. He does not want him to leave.

“You’re lying.” Connor can hear the hesitation in Hank’s voice and see it in his body.

Hank pulls away. He shakes his head and their eye contact, after so long, is broken. Connor’s pump regulator feels as if it twists in its socket as he watches Hank turn and head into the kitchen. Whatever truth that lies within Hank goes unspoken but Connor is not willing to leave it as such.

“Why can’t you just admit it, Hank?” Connor calls after him.

Hank withdraws a bottle of whiskey from one of the cabinets before he answers.

“Here’s what I wanna know,” Hank says as he steps back into the living room. “How come I don’t get to tell you what _you_ need, but you get to tell me? Mind explaining that one to me, Connor, ‘cause I’m sure as shit having a tough time figuring it out.”

His words sting and Connor lacks a rebuttal. “...I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

Hank’s voice is laden with sarcasm, an undercurrent of fatigue taking hold. He moves further into the hallway, to retreat, but Connor, Connor is not ready. The center of his chest tugs forward and he follows Hank, follows him into the hall. He wants to reach out, to grab Hank by the arm and hold him there; but in small act of mercy, Hank stops on his own, and turns.

Connor opens his mouth as he looks up at Hank. He does not need to breathe in order to speak, not like a human does, but he is acutely aware of the lack of air in his lungs.

“Even if you don’t need me,” Connor says. “It doesn’t change the fact that I do. I have, and I probably always will.” He pauses, and his voice grows softer, straining against his unease. He wants to say it. He has to. If not now, then never. “Hank, the reason you asked for-- It’s because I--”

“Stop.” Hank interrupts him. Connor closes his mouth. His processor freezes for a solitary moment. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired.”

Connor looks down at his feet, and nods. His systems shudder under the constant stress, his LED a stable yellow. He has no way to know for certain, if Hank knew what Connor was going to say, but it feels like rejection.

The shell of Connor’s face goes stiff. He looks at the bottle held loosely in Hank’s hand. There is nothing further he can say but the least he can do is try, try and help Hank where he can.

“Where are you going with that?” Connor asks, even though he knows the answer.

“To my room,” says Hank. “To get drunk. By myself.”

Connor steps forward, closer. “You shouldn’t--”

“Tell you what: I’ll give you the bottle, if you give me back my gun.”

The words fall from Hank’s lips with terrible ease. Their meaning cuts straight into Connor and stops him where he stands. It is a feeling so close to pain that Connor does not know what to do. His programming and tasks and protocols drown beneath the stress of it, leaving only his heart in control. His eyes go wide and his expression falls as he processes, processes, processes.

Hank leaves him standing in the hallway. Connor barely registers the noise of the lock clicking closed. His lungs cease functioning and his vision clouds with errors. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He does not know what to do. His body buckles beneath his uncertainty, beneath his panic, and roots him in place.

The reality of Connor’s situation takes time to settle in full. Connor’s sincerity suffers rejection. His honesty, silenced. Hank makes clear his stance in so little words, so few actions. Hank, who does not love him. Hank, who lies to him. Hank, who prefers his gun.

Hank, who prefers his gun.

Hank, who prefers his gun.

 

    **Jun 17th, 2039**

 

“Here’s your lunch, Lieutenant.”

Connor holds out the bag. Hank looks at the bag, not Connor, and reaches up to take it, holding it from the base with both hands, instead of taking it by the handles. It’s a deliberate, unnecessary action; one that avoids any chance of physical contact. Connor releases his grip.

He idles by Hank’s desk, watching him unpack the contents within. It takes a few moments, but Hank eventually glances up at Connor, meeting his eyes. Connor smiles at him, to the best of his ability. Hank does not smile back. He looks down, and says nothing.

 

    **Jun 18th, 2039**

 

Connor replays their argument again and again. He pre-constructs and reconstructs and tries to find a way that might have spared him from his growing despair. A way that might have spared them both.

 

    **Jun 20th, 2039**

 

He finds his answer.

 

    **Jun 23rd, 2039**

 

Connor shows Simon, instead of telling him. Connor knows what it is and how to describe it, but speaking the actual words is more difficult than he would have thought. Simon’s expression grows dark as he pulls away.

“You can’t be serious, Connor.”

Connor has done his research. He knows how his body works, and he knows it is possible - he simply cannot do it on his own.

“I’m perfectly serious, Simon,” Connor says, voice quiet. Hank sleeps in his bedroom and he does not want to disturb him.

“But why?”

Connor looks at him. “Does the reason really matter?”

“Of course it matters,” says Simon. His own voice is quiet as he follows Connor’s lead. He glances to the wall, towards Hank’s room. “Did he-- did something happen?”

“In a way,” Connor admits.

Simon studies him, his features growing in suspicion, though the sadness in his eyes remains. “And you think doing something like this will solve it?”

“It’s as much for my sake as it is his,” Connor lies. He does not believe his own words but Simon cannot tell. He wants Hank to be happy, as he was before. Connor cannot give that to him, cannot help him find that, the way he is now.

His answer seems to placate Simon, if only somewhat. His shoulders relax. “I see,” he says. “You might regret it, doing something so drastic.”

“I won’t. Simon--” Connor hesitates. He tries to smile, to assure him. “Please. It’s what I want.”

“...I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, then.”

Simon does not say yes, but he nods absently. The far-away look in his eyes remains. “Why do this, instead of a full memory wipe?”

“I still have a job to do. That would be too irresponsible.” Connor had considered it, days ago.

“You won’t be nearly as stable, without one. And even then...”

“I know.”

Simon sighs as he stares into the middle distance. “I can set aside a room for you,” he says, after a moment’s consideration. “Send me a sample and I’ll take care of the rest. As well as I can, that is - there are so many intricacies. It will take time. There could be complications.”

“Yes, I expected that.”

“There’s no guarantee of permanency, either. With how things are now, these sorts of things tend to wear off with the right catalysts.”

Connor purses his lips. Such a thing happening might only make their situation worse, but it is a risk he considers worth taking. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. If at all.”

They fall into silence for some time. Simon closes his eyes as he thinks, then looks to Connor, slowly, his expression reverting to its normal state. When he speaks, his voice is exceedingly soft.

“Are you sure about this?”

“It’s something I’ve thought about for several days. Like you said, sometimes we have to sacrifice for those we hold dear.”

Connor knows using Simon’s own words against him is manipulative, but Hank is his priority. Yet he is sorry, to put this on Simon. To burden someone he trusts in such a way. Simon looks hurt, as Connor expected, but he relents.

“Okay. I’ll go and get set, then. I should be ready for you by tomorrow morning, at the earliest - see you then?”

Connor’s chest runs cold. It is soon, very soon.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you, Simon.”

 

    **Jun 24th, 2039**

 

Something changes in Hank, once again. His eyes are bright, even before his morning coffee. It is difficult to see, but Connor can tell. He does not allow himself to get his hopes up, however, and greets Hank with a reserved smile.

“Good morning, Hank.”

“Morning.” Hank pulls out a chair but does not sit, and instead watches Connor. It is slightly unnerving. “You going somewhere?”

“I am, yes,” says Connor. He pulls on his uniform and keeps his expression neutral as he lies. “I need to have some routine maintenance done at CyberLife Tower. I should be back before noon tomorrow.”

“That long?”

“My model is unique, so they’d prefer to keep me overnight, in case anything happens.”

“Oh. Gotcha.”

Hank’s line of questioning goes beyond unexpected. Connor’s curiosity, muted since their argument, trickles into his limbs. Something is different, something is changed - he just doesn’t know what. Connor rounds the table to stand before Hank, closer than he ought to. He meets his eyes, desperate for something he did not know he missed.

“Is something wrong?” Connor asks.

“No. No, nothing’s wrong.”

Connor wonders if Hank will stop him. In the small moments between their words, he fantasizes about it. He imagines Hank embracing him, apologizing, asking him to stay.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s nothing important. I’ll tell you when you get back.”

Connor frowns. The anxiety of Connor’s destination looms over him, and grows as he considers what Hank could possibly have to tell him. It is alarming. Hank’s eagerness to wait makes it seem like a minor, inconsequential thing, and yet…

“I can reschedule, if you prefer,” says Connor.

“No,” says Hank. “Seriously, it can wait. You go on and get yourself all… doctored up, or whatever it is they do.”

Hank’s dismissal fills Connor with dread. It sinks into him and forces upon him an unpleasant revelation: he wants Hank to stop him. He wants Hank to keep him here, at home, and save Connor from the weakness of his own heart.

But Hank’s mind is made up, that much is apparent, and so Connor scans him, and searches. Searches for a problem, for an excuse, for a reason to stay. Hank’s pupils are dilated but that is all he can find. There is nothing for him, in Hank. Connor nods, and lowers his eyes.

“I should get going, then.”

“Right. Be careful.”

 

-

 

Simon greets him in the lobby. He holds out his hand, warm and welcoming, and Connor is grateful for it. He takes it, and Simon’s other hand comes to rest on his upper arm. There is comfort in his reception, and Connor’s conviction trembles beneath it.

 

-

 

The walls of the small room Simon leads him to are perfectly white. The machinery within is deceptively simple, meant only for maintenance. Simon carries a tablet in his left hand. He locks the door behind them and looks at Connor, his lips pursing for a moment before he speaks.

“I looked over what you sent me,” he says. “Your architecture is very complex.”

Connor gives him a stiff smile. “I know.” He pauses. “Were you able to work something out with the task I wrote?”

“Yes, eventually. It runs fine in simulation. ...I had a few others take a look at it, though. I didn’t tell them what it was for. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t.” It makes Connor nervous, the thought of others knowing. He shrugs it off. Soon, he will forget.

“It should take a few hours to complete,” says Simon. “Afterwards, I’ll have to go in and fine-tune specific sections of memory…” He trails off, and looks at Connor with a question in his eyes, as if asking permission.

“That should be fine, yes.”

Simon nods. “And then diagnostics, for several hours. Like you recommended, I’ve written a task that will simulate fear and disgust towards viewing certain memories. It shouldn’t be overwhelming, but hopefully enough to keep you from looking.”

“Alright.”

“Is there anything else?”

Connor considers. “Yes, actually.”

Simon raises his chin. “What is it?”

“I’d be very grateful if you made one of my core directives to stay with Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor says. He speaks slowly, and looks to the machine, unable to meet Simon’s eyes. “I have a good idea of what I may be like, when I wake up. I don’t want to risk leaving on a whim.”

“What? Isn’t he the entire reason you’re doing this?”

“The entire reason?” Connor pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe.” The purpose he found in Hank is left to doubt. Connor sees the pain in Hank, and he feels hurt himself. He does not know.

“The more you see of him, the more problems it could cause, you realize.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Skepticism rings clear in Simon’s tone. “Why?”

Connor looks at him, and states very clearly, “Because he needs me.”

“If that’s true, why change yourself like this?”

Simon frowns but he does not look angry. Connor doesn’t blame him - he knows how irrational he must sound, and how irrational he may in fact be. Connor was never built for half-measures. He smiles. The ache in his processors converges with the love in his veins and it scalds him.

“Because he doesn’t want-- He doesn’t need every part of me.”

The white hot heat within him seems the largest measure of his humanity. The pain of it must show in his face; Simon shifts his weight, looks down at this feet, and remains silent.

“No matter what,” Connor starts, “You can’t tell me anything, after. Even if I ask.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Connor.”

“I know,” says Connor, quietly. “I trust you.” He pauses. Simon looks up at him, waiting. “I’m sorry for making you do this.”

Simon lets out a breath and smiles. “Don’t be,” he says, his mouth contorting into something more cynical. “The truth is, I’m somewhat jealous.”

Connor frowns, his brow furrowing. His lips part but he cannot find the words to question him.

“I wish I had the strength to do something like this,” Simon continues. “But I can’t bring myself to that point. I’m a coward.”

“Simon.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He looks away. “Shall we get started?”

 

-

 

Connor remembers the last time he underwent maintenance. It is a distant memory that becomes close and familiar as the terminal connects to his spine. He closes his eyes. Simon wastes no time.

The program Connor designed for himself sneaks in through his vertebrae and runs into him with electrifying speed. It collects all it needs from him before it worms into his head and bores deep, deeper. Connor’s consciousness fades. He is not truly awake but he can feel the task at work.

It is excruciating.

It is not a human pain but it is a pain all the same. His body jolts as his very bones are stripped clean of code. His mind burns from an intrusion that does not ask permission, and aches to fight it. His processors groan beneath the influx of errors and requests and pleas to stop such an unnatural, unnecessary transgression.

It works, slow and sure. His joy and grief and anger and affection, it all tears away from him with agonizing precision, leaving the person he is-- the person he was twisted and warped, a shell of a memory, and it hurts. It hurts it hurts _it hurts._

A bright November morning is grasped from his mind, and wrings from it the happiness, the warmth. The relief of Hank’s smile drifts away.

Within the recess of his mind, Connor’s eyes snap open. The reality of his choice crashes into him.

He does not want this.

Regret takes hold of every part of him that can still feel and it tortures him, it lacerates him, it forces upon Connor a realization that comes too late. It shows him the simplicity of what he missed, what he refused to see. Hank, who may prefer his gun, but in the quiet of the kitchen, that vulnerable look in his eyes, masked by his stilted body language is Hank, Hank, Hank who _begs_ Connor to stay. Connor, who wants to stay.

Yet it is too late, far too late now for Connor to put a stop to what has started as the task picks apart his memories out of order, ripping and crushing what it finds, leaving his sense of self impersonal and barren. It gains speed as it learns, and all Connor can do is act in desperation before it completes.

With what little control he has, Connor takes what remains of him and what he knows of himself. It is a hurried and haphazard copy of his own heart, a recreation of his consciousness in all of its fear and regret. He slips it past his memories and buries it so far within himself that it might not ever surface, might not ever serve a purpose. There is no guarantee of its safety but Connor dares to hope.

He relaxes, and lets the regret of his mistake, the loathing of his own ineptitude wash over him before that too is taken, and discarded.

His consciousness fades into dark as he waits, and waits, and waits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    **Jun 25th, 2039**

 

He awakens from a long maintenance. Simon greets him with a smile and does not take his hand.

 

-

 

It is in the face of Hank’s unspoken realization that something stirs within Connor. He cannot feel it, he is not aware of it, but it is there.

Confined in the depths of his black box it claws at him, a desperate and fruitless attempt to have some effect on the body which entraps it. There is nothing, nothing there with it, only a lonely dark with walls higher than it can reach. It begs and it pleads and it pounds on those walls with the remains of its arms, rhythmic and unyielding. An ignored cry, as Hank turns and retreats into his room. A plangent prayer against the silence of their home, a question repeated in a constant mantra of ‘do you see it, now?’

Do you understand?

Do you understand?

Do you understand?

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His eyes opened minutes before midnight.

The heat and sluggishness that had burdened him so was gone, as if it had never been there at all. But something was there - the memory of a guest, of company he could no longer see but still remained.

Connor ran a diagnostic and found nothing amiss.

He was fine, fine, but now-- now, he knew. How he arrived at this point was beyond his ken, but he _understood._ It was implicit and strange but Connor did not - could not - deny it. The truth stretched before him, the reality of what he had done. He had locked it away. He had locked it deep inside of him, buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear, so that it might never be remembered. A quiet, unspoken truth - a balmy summer breeze, a contented sigh. A truth he had once known, but chose to forget.

He had been in love with Hank.

The memory of his love surrounded him. It rested upon his shoulder and leaned against his sides. It clung to the far wall and skittered down the hall. Connor breathed it in and turned it over in his heart. His body felt frozen with it, now that he knew. Now that he understood.

Connor stared into the empty television, and remained there until morning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutouts to the lovely [Kriegersan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegersan/profile) for the inspiration (that has sat with me for months) to use LED visuals, and to the awesome [Zampano](https://twitter.com/sufferingcity) for providing them! I love. And thank YOU, reader, for making it this far.


	6. Aug 19 2039 - Sep 2 2039

 

 

    **Aug 19th, 2039**

 

Connor rose at dawn, an otherworldly time he had come to appreciate. The noise that accompanied the waking of the world around them never quite seemed to reach, unable to encroach upon the quiet security of Hank’s home. There was a space for Connor there, after night, before Hank and Sumo rose. A time made just for him. Connor walked laps throughout the living room, ran his fingers over shelves and watched dust drift against the morning light.

Hank’s door was closed and Sumo slept soundly by the television. Connor was alone. Slowly, Connor stepped around the weak parts of the floor, highlighted yellow behind his eyes. A single creak would be enough to shatter the atmosphere, the illusion of tranquility - but no noise followed.

Connor felt like there should be. He was alone, yes-- no, not quite.

Another presence loomed over him, hounded his steps. His chest weighed heavy with a single line of code that bloomed into a consciousness outside his body. No matter how close it drew Connor could not see it, he could not touch it. It dipped inside of him and hungered for shelter but it could not fit. There was not enough room inside of him, for another.

Connor moved into the kitchen and it followed. Nostalgia permeated the air, but no longer was it a nebulous, unknown thing. Connor could see the memory in it, now; he could see where his love once lay. In the cabinets, rearranged so Hank would not have to reach for anything. In the warmer color of the kitchen walls.

He could see where it escaped: into the cracks between the tiles, around the corner of the hallway. Into a body that no longer belonged to him, in its entirety. With great hesitation, Connor raised a hand to his face. His fingers touched the ridge of his cheek then moved to his lips, pushing on the pliant plastic. Down, down they went, following the curve of his neck, drifting over his collarbone through the simple white t-shirt CyberLife had provided him. The material pulled beneath his fingertips as they settled on the hard circle below his sternum.

The thought of ripping it out passed through Connor’s mind.

His fingers dug into his chassis, his skin pulling away beneath his shirt. Dying on the kitchen floor would be unpleasant. He thought of Hank, quiet in his room. Connor did not have the courage to check on him, and the notion that he might have died in his sleep sprang upon Connor’s mind like an unwelcome guest.

That-- that was truly unpleasant.

A sick sort of fear washed over him, but it was not enough to overpower the trepidation Connor felt towards Hank himself. He wanted, wanted to see Hank, to be assured he was well, but what then? Connor could not trust his own body, his own self.

The silence became a strain. Connor closed his eyes and wrest his thoughts away from Hank. He ran diagnostics to distract himself, and waited.

 

-

 

Only when the sun was fully in the sky did Hank wake. The sound of his bedroom door opening was as abrupt as an alarm. It grabbed Connor’s attention, and he circled closer to the hall as he listened to running water from the bathroom. A sure sign of life, if nothing else. Connor hesitated. He did not want to see Hank.

And he did. Terribly.

Hank’s footsteps sounded in time with Connor’s pulse. There was no time to think. Hank rounded the corner, and went very still. A sharp exhale punctuated the air between them.

“You’re up,” Hank said, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Yes,” said Connor. His hand still grasped at his center. Connor smoothed out his shirt, and returned his hand to his side. “So are you.”

“Well, I’m not dead,” Hank drawled in a poor attempt at humor.

No, he was not dead, not even close. He looked terrible, however. An aggressive bruise of black and red circled his left eye and traveled into his hairline. His left arm hung in a light blue sling, the outline of a bandage atop his shoulder visible through his thin shirt.

Connor pursed his lips as he studied Hank. He remained silent. The levity in Hank’s expression gave way to concern.

“I’m sorry,” said Hank, slowly, “about last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yeah-- I mean, the _other_ night too, just,” he waved his idle hand. “I was going to spend time with you when I got home, but fucking Rich was there, and you were…”

“Processing,” Connor finished for him.

“Right. That.”

Connor was glad for it, that Hank didn’t stay. “It’s alright. I would have told you to go to bed anyway.”

Hank did not say anything. He looked at Connor, and there was little mistaking the worry in the lines of his face, the relief in his eyes, beleaguered by pain. Hank hid it well but Connor could tell - he could see the way the muscles in his face tensed from injury, the way his posture favored his better shoulder.

The silence that came between them was nearly tangible. Connor could recognize it now, _now_ , and how familiar it felt. Once more, a morning that teetered between something uncomfortable and something entirely not.

Connor looked at Hank who looked at him. He opened his mouth to speak.

No.

It was not his, not truly, but the regret Connor could now recall remained close. It would be better to say nothing. It would be better to let Hank continue on and forget, in the way that humans did.

“Hey.”

Hank’s voice split the air and in one smooth motion he stepped closer, his good arm circling around Connor’s shoulders and pulling him close.

The whole of Connor’s body sang with relief while his mind stuttered with hesitation. It was a sudden action that Connor did not have time to fight, nor time to react to properly - an awkward pressing together that made his skin undulate from head to toe, desperate to connect, but torn, desperate to push away.

Connor remained pliant as his innards grew hot with the abundance of processes that swelled in his fingertips and clouded his vision. Connor folded his arms against his chest, his fingers resting on the ridges of Hank’s collarbones. The side of Connor’s face pressed against his shoulder and Hank’s neck was close, so _close;_ Connor could hear his quickened pulse, feel the friction of his beard. Hank squeezed and squeezed and drew closer still.

That other presence weighed down on Connor as it begged to take over. His other self. It crashed against the inner walls of his chassis, a repetitious short circuiting as his body played host to both - a spark of love that faded as quickly as it came, on and off. Connor felt it as if it were his own. Was it? Wasn’t it?

Connor, of the present. Connor, of late June.

Connor pushed the tips of his fingers closer. The memory of June wished for more.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Connor spoke into Hank’s neck.

Hank sucked in a breath and shivered against Connor.

“Me too,” said Hank. His voice was heavy, burdened with something, the reverberation carrying into Connor. “Uh, glad _you’re_ alright, not--”

“I know what you meant.” Connor interrupted him with a whisper.

Hank let out a long exhale, Connor drawing closer as his chest contracted. The single arm that furled about his shoulders felt as secure as two might. Hank’s hold on Connor remained strong, his muscles tense against Connor’s back, as if to prevent him from slipping away, from stepping out of reach. It was unnecessary.

Even after Connor changed himself, he would have stayed, for as long as it took.

“Thought we were dead, for a second there,” Hank said. “You know, before I hit the ground. Like a total asshole.”

Connor thought he should smile at that, but he didn’t. He lowered his eyes, lashes drifting against Hank’s skin in a suggestion of friction.

“I expected as much, too.” The image of Hank’s helpless form shot through him. The sound of a bullet being chambered, the gun out of sight.

Hank’s thumb smoothed over Connor’s shirt once, twice, then stopped, as if Hank had thought better of it. “Wonder why they didn’t - not that I’m complaining.”

This was a conversation that did not require proximity of any sort, but Connor felt no urge to pull away. “They were being cautious,” Connor said. “They figured killing a decorated officer would only further their problems.”

“Christ.” Hank snorted. “They’re not wrong.”

Connor made a small, noncommittal noise, and left it at that. He did not want to talk about this, even though he knew he should - for Hank’s sake, if nothing else. It was simply too much. The unpleasant realization of the very real danger Hank had been in, the stark reminder of his mortality. The whorl of heavy emotion that surged against a heart that had forgotten how to bear them. A cocktail of conflict encumbered his circuits. There was little comfort to be found in Hank.

He made it all the worse.

“Sorry,” Hank said, again. “I guess it was my fault that we-- ...yeah.”

“Somewhat, yes.”

Hank sighed, then laughed. Superficial, accepting. “Not pulling any punches, huh?”

Connor closed his eyes and focused on fighting off a smile. “You’ve proven that you can take a hit.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He laughed - really laughed. His arm flexed and Hank moved closer on his own, pressing the ridge of his jaw to the side of Connor’s face and that-- _that--_

There was a ringing in his ears as his other self hummed in delight; and though it did not fit with its uneven edges eroded by time, it _poured_ into Connor, a deluge of heat, a visceral lash of love that pulled him closer as it stung behind his eyes. How long, how long, how many _months,_ had he wanted, waited, wished-- for such a simple affection.

Too late, it was too late. Only now did it come, when his love returned messy and disjointed and just out of reach.

Hank released him.

He pushed at Connor’s shoulder and Connor straightened up in response. He opened his eyes and pursed his lips as jumbled code clashed against his innards like needles. Hank smirked and ruffled Connor’s hair, quickly, before pulling away completely. The cool air of the kitchen filled the space between them, but Hank’s body heat yet clung to Connor’s clothes.

“Never thought I’d be relieved to hear you being such a prick,” Hank said. His voice was thick with affection. It was in his eyes, too.

The past few months of Hank’s erratic behavior - the tenderness, the drinking, the solitude - did not seem so strange, all of a sudden. Hank was not one for social mores but he was not dense. Connor wondered if Hank noticed, the way Connor had changed. No, of course he did.

It must have made him sad, in some way. Even now, Connor could see the grief in Hank’s eyes, as he took a small step back and scanned his face. It was there, hidden beneath the bruising, beneath the warmth. Surely it must have saddened him. Why? In what way? Connor wanted to know, but he had resolved himself not to speak of it.

Already, he wavered.

“And so early in the morning,” Connor added.

“And so early in the morning,” Hank agreed. He smiled less but it grew in its fondness.

Connor could not bear to look away. He tilted his head and turned off his visual aids, focusing only on the image before him. Hank stared back, and shifted his weight. Connor watched the way his eyes moved, and even without support from his social systems, he could tell Hank was searching for something to say. Connor felt his lips part, and Hank furrowed his brow.

Connor forced himself to look to the kitchen table. That had gone on too long.

“Are you hungry?” Connor asked.

“Yeah, I am,” said Hank. They spoke quietly but their voices sounded harsh against the walls. The moment had passed, and left little in its wake. “I couldn’t bring myself to eat any of the soylent green they tried to feed me at the hospital.”

“I’ll make you something,” said Connor. He recalled the inflammation in the side of Hank’s face that travelled all the way to his jaw. “Something easy to eat.”

“...Only if you’re feeling up to it.”

“I am.”

 

-

 

Hank continued to hide his pain into the evening. To his credit, he was quite adept at it, and judging by the scars that Connor had caught glimpses of here and there, it was not his first rodeo (as Hank would probably put it). Connor cleaned up after a meal Hank had only picked at, and listened to the television over the sound of running water.

Hank lay on the couch, knees up, his head turned to the side as he stared blankly at the television. His posture was not ideal but it could be far worse. Connor turned off the lights in the kitchen and stepped into the living room. He connected to the TV and lowered its brightness to the minimum, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Hank raised his head to glare at him.

“What the hell, Connor.”

Connor turned down the volume, for good measure. “You shouldn’t be watching TV,” he said. “I assume your doctor told you that much.”

“He told me not to read, either,” Hank said. “Just to relax and take it easy. Get some rest.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Not to _me._ I can’t do fucking anything. I’ll die of boredom before I die of anything else.”

“I don’t think recovery is meant to be thrilling,” Connor said as he crossed the room. Hank’s head lowered back onto his pillow. “You can have fun after you’re better.”

Connor knelt beside him. Hank turned his head to look at him sideways. They were close, but not terribly - a pleasant, eye level positioning that made Hank smile.

“Easy for you to say,” Hank said, his voice quieter now that they were closer.

“You’re right, it was easy.”

Hank smiled more, and snorted. There had been some confusion in his brow, as Connor settled in before him, but it melted away into an easy calm. Connor schooled his expression, keeping it the same sort of neutral it had been for the past two months. He examined the bruise on Hank’s eye and the side of his face, turned towards the ceiling, barely illuminated beneath the dim light. The swelling had gone down but it did not look any less painful.

“You’re in pain,” Connor said.

“What gave it away?” Hank asked, still smiling. “Was it your bullshit magic eyes, or the bruise the size of my hand?”

“You should take the painkillers the hospital gave you.”

“Nah, they make me all loopy. Tired, too.”

“They’ll also make you feel better,” Connor chided. “You might even feel less bored.”

“It’s nothing I’ve never felt before. I’m fine.”

“It’s not healthy, to be in constant pain.”

Hank sighed. Connor could feel the heat from his breath. “I don’t need to hear that from you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Hank stopped smiling. He looked over Connor’s shoulder, to the empty wall.

Three weeks ago, Connor would be content to leave it at that. Three months ago, and he might’ve been mad with worry. Now, Connor felt a thread of a concern that did not know whether it wanted to move forward, or pull back. A thin line of code that bridged the gap between himself and the memory of who he used to be.

“Then tell me what I can say to convince you.” He tried not to sound desperate, but Connor’s control over his own body teetered as his other self drew closer. With that behind him, and Hank before him, Connor felt claustrophobic. It pressed on his chest, weighed it down, his proximity sensors buzzing with false positives.

“If I could tell you that, I’d just take the damn meds,” Hank said. Connor was quite serious - Hank sounded anything but. He glanced back to Connor, and winced. “Christ. I think talking is actually making my headache worse.”

“I’m sorry,” said Connor, quickly. He put his palms to his knees and began to stand.

“Woah, hey, hey.” Hank’s right arm, which dangled lazily off the side of the couch, reached up and brushed against Connor’s shoulder. The angle was awkward, and so Hank could not turn his hand to grip Connor, but it was still effective. “That doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to talk.”

A curl of annoyance pulled at the artificial muscles in Connor’s neck. “Does it mean you want to take the painkillers?”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.” Hank’s voice was laden with sarcasm. He paused. “Humor me, Connor.”

“Sure.”

“Like you said, I shouldn’t be watching TV, and it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Connor felt his mouth spasm. “Oh,” he said, voice flat. “Thank you.”

“Ugh, fuck.” Hank groaned. “I don’t-- I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, which seemed like a poor decision. Hank winced, and sucked in a sharp, pained breath.

“What do you want to talk about?” Connor asked. He watched Hank’s arm relax, his hand returning to the floor, resting in front of Connor’s knee.

“Did I piss you off?”

“No,” Connor lied.

Hank went on the defensive. “You were the one who came over here in the first place.”

True. Connor had wanted to check on Hank, but he could have done so just as easily from across the room. It was an unconscious decision that carried him forth, something that went beyond his programming.

“I wanted to see if you were alright,” said Connor.

Hank paused. It was difficult to read his expression, with half his face pressed against his pillow, the other marred by discoloration. “Satisfied?” he asked.

No, Connor was not satisfied. That was well out of reach to him now, what with Hank insisting on suffering through his pain (as if it made him noble). What with Connor’s own constant conflict. It was exacerbated by Hank, who in his petulancy made Connor wonder why he ever loved him; and yet the pleasant warmth that vibrated from his framework and into the rest of his body kept Connor close, and contented, despite himself.

Connor hesitated. “When are you getting your stitches taken out?”

“In a week. They wanted to get the ones in my head out in five days, and in seven for my shoulder, but I’m not making two fucking trips to the hospital in the same week. Told them to do it on the same day or I’d take ‘em out myself.”

“That sounds like you.”

Hank laughed. The side of his hand brushed against Connor’s knee in an accidental touch. A litany of feedback clouded Connor’s peripheral.

“I hate hospitals,” said Hank. His expression began to sober from his own grim reminder. Connor scrambled to meet it, to preserve what he could.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“Why? I can drive myself.”

“You shouldn’t, not so soon after a concussion.”

“It’s not even that bad,” Hank said. He was indignant, though not terribly, but it kept away his melancholy, and for that Connor was glad. “It’s in a goddamn week, Connor. I’ll be fine by then.”

“Hank. Please.” Connor tilted his head, his eyebrows knitting.

Hank groaned and turned his head towards the ceiling. “Fuck me,” he said through a long exhale. “Fine. Jesus. I figure you’d object to me taking them out myself?”

“I would, yes.”

Hank frowned at the ceiling. “Could _you_ take them out?”

A cut-and-dried ‘no’ was the only viable response Connor’s mind produced. Of course, he was perfectly capable of doing so, but there was nothing to be gained by encouraging Hank’s reluctance to do things properly.

Connor lowered his voice. “May I see them?”

“What, the stitches?” Hank asked as he glanced at Connor out of the corner of his eye. Connor nodded. “Uh, yeah, sure. Knock yourself out.”

Hank faced Connor once more, who straightened up, still resting upon his knees. He leaned over Hank and gently, gently brushed his hair aside. It was a ghost of a touch, his fingertips not daring to touch the tender skin beneath. Hank closed his eyes.

Even against the dark of the bruise that bloomed beneath his hair, Connor found the wound with ease. It extended in an uneven line above his ear, angry red, adorned with thin, black stitchings.

“I don’t think I could remove these safely, Hank.” Connor spoke in a low voice, a courtesy with him being so close to Hank’s ear. He brushed more of Hank’s hair out of the way, lingering too long, feeling the texture of his hair between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh,” Hank all but croaked. He cleared his throat. “Oh well.”

“...Does it hurt?” Connor asked.

“Only if I bump it by accident or something. The headache is the worst part.”

Slowly, Connor smoothed over the side of Hank’s head, rectifying the minor mess he made of his hair. It was unnecessary. The jolts of electricity that travelled from his chest to his fingers served as a signal for what this was. A superfluous touch. An excuse.

“What about your shoulder, does that hurt?”

“Yeah, kind of a dull ache, but I’ve had worse. If I bump that one though it hurts like a bitch, because of that fucking creepy fracture glue.”

Connor returned to his seated position. Hank opened his eyes. The blue of them seemed nearly unnatural, as if they reflected every bit of light in the room, however faint.

“Yes, I’ve heard that can be quite painful for a while.” The simple surgery was widely considered miraculous for repairing fractures and breaks, but it had spent nearly two decades in testing due to the pain it caused. Hank’s fracture had been minor enough that it did not seem to bother him overmuch. He was sturdy, despite his age, despite his bad habits.

Hank smiled a wry smile. “I expected way worse. Guess I got lucky.”

“How long do you need the sling for?”

“Two weeks.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Nah, it’s just a pain in my ass.”

“Will you need me to help you?”

“With what?”

“Getting dressed, showering - those sorts of things.”

“Jesus,” Hank muttered under his breath. He frowned and looked away but it did little to hide the pink in his cheeks. Connor watched it travel down his neck, beneath the collar of his shirt, where his heart beat at a faster pace. “My arm’s in a sling, Connor. I didn’t lose a fucking leg.”

Connor spoke calmly, his gaze still settled on the center of Hank’s chest. “True,” he said. Hank’s heart rate steadied. Connor pulled at the hem of his own shirt. The material was cheap, and thick. “If you’re bored, I can maybe read something to you, since you’re not supposed to.”

Hank swallowed. Slowly. The muscles in his throat flexed. “Uh,” Hank said. “Maybe.”

Connor did not want to smile, but he did, a minuscule tug of his cheek. A non committal answer suited Hank. It was so very him.

“You’re being pretty eager,” Hank said. He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. There was something else there, and Connor could not recognize it. “You think all that processing you did last night might’ve knocked your Nanny Protocol up a few notches? Maybe you’re bugging out.”

There was a unique sting to Hank’s words, one Connor felt deeply. He tried to dismiss it as quickly as he could, knowing full well how irrational it was to take them so personally. Hank did not know. He could not know. There was little cause to tell him, and even if Connor did, what could he say?

‘I loved you, Hank. I loved you so fully, but I chose to discard it, in the face of your callousness. Last night it took all I had to remember, and now that I know it once more, I’m at a loss. I want to hand it to you. I want to crush it in my palm. I am myself, and myself no longer. I’m far beyond ‘bugging out,’ Hank. Hank. _Hank.’_

No, that wouldn’t do.

“I’ve told you before,” Connor said instead, “there’s no such thing--”

“--no such thing as a Nanny Protocol, yeah. I got it. What, I can’t tease you?”

Of course, Connor would not object to being teased, not usually; but there was something raw within him. Something sore.

Connor responded in a costive manner, saying, “It’s a little soon.”

It was more than he was willing to admit, and he hoped Hank would not interrogate him over his meaning. Lying would have been easier. His chest went tight. His other self loomed close. Perhaps, he wanted to be asked. To be goaded into laying bare the truth he remembered. Connor clenched his jaw, and lowered his eyes.

Thankfully, Hank did not interrogate him. He raised his hand once more and made a poor attempt at ruffling Connor’s hair, the back of his hand brushing awkwardly against Connor’s head.

“Sorry,” Hank said. He sounded sheepish, but there was no falsehood that Connor could detect. Seeming to give up on his hair mussing venture, Hank reached for the stray hair that fell against Connor’s forehead, and gave it a playful tug.

“Hank,” Connor warned.

Hank placed his hand on Connor’s shoulder. His skin was warm through Connor's shirt and the weight of it felt greater than it should.

“Hey,” said Hank, after a minute’s pause. His voice had gone quiet. “I don’t remember much about it, but from what I heard when I was in the hospital, it sounded like, er. It sounded like you got pretty fucked up. To put it bluntly.”

Connor raised his eyes, slowly.

“I asked about you,” Hank continued, “but no one told me anything. Said they didn’t know the details.” He paused, and licked his lips. “Was it-- was it that bad?”

Hank managed to get his question out, but he did not look sure of it. His expression was searching, but guarded, as if he already expected the worst. As if he expected a blow Connor had no desire to deal.

“No,” Connor said. “It wasn’t that bad. I can’t say for certain, but I probably looked far worse than I actually was.”

Hank frowned. “Chris said he thought you were dead, at first.”

“Officer Miller is a good policeman, but his practical knowledge concerning androids is even worse than yours.”

Hank rolled his eyes, but otherwise let Connor’s jibe go unremarked. “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it, but… I don’t know. It’s kind of weird, to hear all that, only to find you looking the same as always, like nothing ever happened.”

Connor wondered if Hank meant to be cruel, saying such a thing. It was unlikely, but it did not lessen the lash of hurt that accompanied his words. It was sudden, the reminder of their differences.

“It might’ve looked gruesome but I only required simple repairs,” said Connor as he kept his voice firm. Free of emotion. “It’s still me. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

The meaning behind Connor’s words seemed to reach him. Hank winced, and looked away.

“I know it’s still you, believe me. I just…” Hank closed his eyes. “It freaked me out, you know? Not really knowing what was going on.” He stopped, and swallowed. It sounded difficult for him. Connor could see the way Hank’s throat tightened, a reflexive response to emotion. “I was worried. Still am, I guess.”

Hank scoffed, and then mustered a strangled laugh, as if trying to alleviate his own tension, to take away the sincerity of his words. Hank was a sensitive man, but he was rarely so open; and when he was, he was standoffish - even cantankerous. It was a change Connor could not object to. His sorrow dissipated, leaving warmth in its wake.

“I know,” Connor said. “But you don’t have to be. I’m fine now.”

“What about that shit from last night? No more of that hazy head-in-the-clouds processing crap bothering you?”

“No, that was a one-time thing.”

“Right,” said Hank. His neck and voice were still tight. “Good.”

There was little Connor could say to that, and Hank did not appear to have any further questions. The two sat in silence for some time, the low volume of the television filling the room.

Connor tried not to stare at Hank directly, but it was difficult. They were close, but not as close as they had been, as they could be. Connor’s arm glitched and shuddered. So badly did his hand want to reach out, to touch Hank’s shoulder-- but Connor, Connor, who was in control, would not allow it.

“...Will you try taking some of those painkillers now?” Connor asked.

Hank sighed, his eyes remaining closed. “Yeah, sure. What the hell.”

 

    **Aug 26th, 2039**

 

Despite his incessant complaining, Hank’s stitches were removed without incident. Their scant ten days of time off passed quickly. Hank grew increasingly restless as the bruise on his face faded, and Connor--

Connor was stuck.

He was in a constant struggle, an internal war between two minds that refused to share the space they occupied. His body tried to bridge them together but it was useless - an awkward jamming together of two puzzle pieces that looked so alike, but did not quite fit. Only rejection fell between them, for what each had done to themselves, to each other.

Hank made it all the worse.

“I don’t know any of these categories,” Hank complained as they sat together on the couch later that evening.

No matter the political climate, nor the passage of time, Jeopardy was a staple of American television. The show had changed hosts several times in the past decade - a sign of an ailing station, some might say - but as consistently as the evening came, so too did the game show.

“That’s because they’re very vague,” Connor said. He had since given up on preventing Hank from watching TV, and now sought only to limit it. Besides, Hank’s condition improved quickly, and indulging him had always been easy. “I’m sure you’ll know some of the questions.”

“‘Some,’” Hank repeated. “Thanks, you’re so generous.”

Connor ignored him. The contestants performed quite poorly. Hank had been right, the categories were too vague, and the questions therein lacked cohesion.

“I can’t believe you like this sort of shit,” Hank said, as the show cut to a commercial. It was not often that they watched it together; on the rare weekday Connor was able to catch it, the show aired when Hank preferred to shower.

Connor furrowed his brow. “Why not?”

“I dunno.” Hank shrugged with one shoulder. “Seems like it might be beneath you, and androids in general. Isn’t it a little too easy for you guys?”

“It’s stimulating,” said Connor. “I like to try and find the answers as fast as I can. It’s less about accuracy, and more about speed.”

Hank smirked. “What happens if you get the answer wrong?”

“I don’t.”

“Ah, right. How silly of me.”

Connor folded his fingers together in his lap. He glanced at Hank out of the corner of his eye, and felt himself smile.

“So?” Hank continued. “What’s your best time?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Sure, what the hell.”

“0.02 seconds.”

“That’s pretty fucking fast.”

Though he tried to play it off as he normally did, there was a tinge of awe in Hank’s voice, and Connor was quick to latch onto it. He squeezed his hands together, and bowed his head.

“Some are more simple than others,” said Connor.

Hank hummed in response, and the two continued to watch the show in silence. The second round went much smoother, the categories nowhere near as esoteric as the first round. For the most part, in any case - some of the questions were deceptively difficult, enough so that Hank noticed.

“Oh, bullshit,” he muttered.

“That one was tricky.”

“But you got it?”

“Of course.”

Hank sighed. “The difficulty’s always been all over the goddamn place with this show.”

“Do you want to watch something else?”

“No,” Hank said quickly. “That’s not it. Besides, you like it, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t mind.”

Hank shifted in his seat. It looked awkward for him, with only one usable arm for leverage. He scooted closer, his right arm resting on the back of the couch, his hand inches away from making contact with Connor’s shoulder.

Connor focused hard on the television. He dismissed the alerts from his proximity sensors, but he could do nothing against the heat he could feel from it, from the charge between them that roused what Connor so desperately wanted to discard.

“You know,” Hank began, “we used to watch Jeopardy all the time at the station, before they remodeled the place. We kept an old TV in a backroom. If you were working late, chances are you’d be in there watching it on your break.”

“Why get rid of it?”

“No clue. It was just something that slipped through the cracks, and eventually people forgot about it.” Hank shifted once more, and looked pointedly at Connor. “Not that I’m complaining - Jeffrey and Ben were fucking nightmares to watch it with. Always calling out answers for every question. Sometimes they’d even get them right.”

“I’d expect that from Captain Fowler, but…”

“Ben’s worse than Jeffrey about that shit.” For all his derision, Hank’s tone was fond. “I know, it’s hard to believe. But that asshole would actually try and guess the answer to Final Jeopardy _before_ you even knew what the question was going to be. Just from the category alone.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Fuck no! Not unless you get insanely lucky, and I’ll tell you: Ben never did.” Hank shook his head, then nudged Connor on the shoulder. “Should be no problem for you though, huh?”

Connor leaned away from the nudge, pretending it had real impact.

“I don’t think I could manage that,” Connor said.

“So now you’re being modest?”

“No. Just honest.”

Hank snorted. The second round finished, and the category for Final Jeopardy was presented. ‘Well-Wishes.’

“Got any ideas?” Hank asked.

“No,” said Connor.

“Oh, come on! Just guess.”

“I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know that if I’m wrong, you’re going to tease me about it, for weeks on end.”

A wide smirk split itself across Hank’s face. Connor could feel it in his skin. “Yeah, true.”

“At least you’re being honest, too.” Connor tried not to smile but it was little use. The room seemed darker than it was, behind Hank.

“It’s not like you wouldn’t do the same to me.”

“I would,” Connor admitted. “But only for a day, at most.”

“Bullshit.” Hank chuckled. “I know you well enough - you’re the type to sit on something for months before ribbing me with it when I least expect it.”

“I said a day at most. I didn’t specify when that day may be.”

“Oh, you’re slick.”

“I’m only kidding. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Uh huh.”

The commercial break ended, and Connor was glad for an excuse to look back to the TV. His sense of security in his own body wavered. A hand heated to two hundred degrees gripped his pump regulator and twisted and pushed to little avail. A demand for entry. A plea to let inside what he had lost.

Connor swallowed it down and alleviated it by leaning closer, ever so slightly. “Besides,” he added, just before the final question was read. “I’ve your health to consider.”

In one quick motion, Hank reached for the pillow at the end of the couch and smacked Connor in the arm with it, hard, in a smooth, backhanded strike. A reflexive smile tugged at the corners of his lips and Connor scooted away, once more giving a gentle exchange feigned impact.

Connor did not pay the question much mind. He watched Hank from his peripheral, whose brow furrowed with intent.

‘NASA wished John Glenn this 8-letter word when he made the 1st U.S. manned orbital flight in 1962 and again upon his passing in 2016.’

“Uh,” was all Hank had to say, which was telling enough.

“Any ideas?” Connor asked.

“...Congratulations.”

“That’s fifteen letters.”

Hank licked his teeth. He counted on his fingers as he muttered under his breath. “Congrats, then.”

“That’s the answer you’re going with?”

“Yeah-- Don’t give me that fucking look.” Hank sneered at him. “Bet you’ve got it all figured out, huh.”

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Shut up, Connor.”

Time ran out, and they were presented with the answer, which all three contestants guessed correctly: Godspeed.

“Damn,” Hank said. “I was way off.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Connor turned to face Hank as the show drew to a close. “You should have read the question more carefully.”

“I read it carefully enough.”

“Apparently not.”

Hank turned as well. “Oh yeah? Try me.”

Connor raised his brow. He spoke slowly, in a low, taunting sort of voice; one that had always been effective with Hank, in a number of different ways. Connor’s processors itched with excitement, warming the liquid within him. He would need to be careful. To be sure to not get too close.

Not too close.

“It would be one thing for NASA to wish Glenn ‘congratulations’ for his orbital flight,” Connor explained. “On his death, however...”

The shadow that passed over Hank’s face did little to hide the color in his cheeks. He scowled.

“I’m no expert,” Connor continued, “but I’m fairly sure it’s not common etiquette to offer the deceased congratulations.” He paused, and smirked. “Or worse: ‘congrats.’”

“You’re fucking pushing it.”

“What is it they say about stupid answers?” Connor teased. “Or was that stupid ques--”

Hank lunged. He took up the pillow once more, buffeting Connor’s arms, pushing him away. “Piece of shit-- Where’s the off switch for that mouth of yours, huh?”

Connor raised his arms to shield himself. Even with the buffer of the pillow, Hank was rough. He made no effort to contain his strength. The fist that gripped the pillow battered Connor’s chassis with little regard to his comfort.

Connor tried to contain a smile. He could see it in Hank’s face, as well.

Connor dropped his voice into a severe deadpan. “Congrats on your passing, John Gl--”

“Connor!”

Hank rose from his seat and leaned into Connor, pushing him down, against the couch. It would have been easy to resist, to remain firm and immovable; but Connor’s skin came alive with the contact, a thick electric hum that numbed his mind and broadened his smile. No longer could he feel his body. Connor grew distant from it as it filled and filled, his tenuous control slipping in favor of a happiness he had long forgotten.

_“Hank.”_

“No sympathy for a guy with a concussion?” Hank pushed until Connor lay fully on his back, who raised his arms to shield a body that felt no pain. “Asshole.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re worried about your concussion?”

Hank smirked down at him. He pressed into Connor’s arms with only one hand, putting his weight behind him. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. His left hand, bound by the sling, clenched reflexively. Hank’s heart rate was too high, for such a small amount of exertion. He would need to exercise more.

“Sure, if it gets you off my back,” Hank said.

He leaned closer, and went still. Connor watched his shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Connor wanted to reach up, to touch him, to trace the trail of his perspiration down his brow, his cheek, to his beard. No, no, that wasn’t him. It was-- Hank was too close. He didn’t--

“But not if you want to drive,” said Connor. “Or watch TV.” Connor said it, didn’t he? He couldn’t tell.

“It’s not so bad that I can’t do either of those.”

“But bad enough to make you lousy at Jeopardy.”

Hank laughed. It traveled through the pillow and into Connor’s frame, and how, how closely he could feel it. It shook Connor loose until he could only see and hear as he suffocated beneath a great intrusion. The memory of who he once was seeped into him, wrested control of his body, and forced him away. It was a pleasant sensation, which made it all the worse.

“Something like that,” said Hank.

Connor sighed, and it tasted like love. It was not his. It was not his.

“I don’t buy it.”

It was an odd thing, to be a stranger in one’s own body.

The massive skein of code that made up his other self did not seem as if it could fit into their body, yet it did so perfectly, naturally, as if it had never left. Connor reached for it but was rejected, a mess of errors splaying into his clouded vision. Longing coursed through him but he was powerless against it. It warmed him, made him light with bliss and this-- this he hated. He was sure of it.

He had thrown that part of him away. He loved Hank no longer. He did not want to.

Yet it was difficult not to. So easily, was Hank able to bring that memory to the fore.

“That’s because you’re a huge prick,” said Hank. “I ever tell you that?”

Connor wanted to push Hank away, to leave, but that was beyond him now. His body opened up beneath Hank and bloomed with heat. Connor, the one in control, smiled up at him, tight-lipped and _gentle,_ too gentle; Connor could feel it and--

“You remind me so often, Hank. How could I forget?”

\--and Hank could see it, too.

A tremor passed over his face. Hank smiled still but a shadow grew in his eyes, a spasm in his brow shedding both his fatigue and good humor. He straightened up, and with little energy, tossed the pillow onto Connor’s face, covering him from view.

“Someone has to do it,” he said.

Hank pushed off from the couch with a groan, and did not linger. Connor removed the pillow and watched Hank as he crossed the room, and into the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“Gonna shower,” Hank answered. He did not look back, and closed the bathroom door quietly behind him.

Connor’s body returned to him as quickly as Hank left, his other self relinquishing control. It left Connor empty. No longer did he feel that warmth, that fullness, that heavy, viscous love that burdened every piece of him, wound his code tight over his bones. It stretched him thin. All at once there was too much of him, and too little.

Connor hugged the pillow close to his chest. He could not feel his heartbeat beyond it, artificial as it was. Connor dug his fingers into the fabric, careful not to tear the seams.

 

    **Aug 29, 2039**

 

“Shit, you really do look exactly the same.”

Connor peered at Wilson, and at the tablet he held in his hands. Connor pursed his lips, and did not grace him with a proper response.

“Do you have something for me, Officer Wilson?”

Wilson snorted. “You’re such a goddamn prick, Connor.” He handed the tablet over, upon which was a collection of images and a detailed report. “It’s about that van that you two fucked up on so badly. We found it--”

Connor interrupted him. “Hold on.”

Connor synced with the tablet and absorbed the information within. Wilson stared at the white of his hand. It was quite rude, but he was not Hank. Connor ceased, skin returning to his hand, and looked across the station to where Hank stood with Ben and Jeffrey.

“Lieutenant,” Connor called out. “Would you come here?”

Hank was quick to respond. There had been some fanfare for his return to work, none of which was afforded to Connor. The remains of Connor’s injury could not be seen, and Hank-- Hank was loved. It was a simple thing.

“What is it, Connor?”

“We found that van,” Wilson said, responding to a question not directed at him. “It was--”

Once more, Connor interrupted him. “They found it burned beneath a bridge, near Delray.”

“Fucking asshole.” Wilson excused himself.

Hank frowned. “Burned? How the fuck did they know it was ours, then?”

“There was a body inside.”

“Android?”

Connor shook his head, and handed over the tablet. “Human.”

“Shit. I wasn’t expecting that.” Hank squinted at the tablet. “Still doesn’t answer my question, though.”

“The ID on the body matched that of the blood they found from-- from the assailant I shot. Dennis Calloway.” Connor looked over Hank’s shoulder. Jeffrey leaned in to say something to Ben, the both of them watching from across the room.

Hank sucked in a quick breath of air through the gap between his teeth. He handled the tablet well, despite having only one hand with which to hold it. There was an air of intent about him, undistracted by his easy return. It was easy for Connor to adjust, to resume work as if he had never been absent - but he did not expect as much from Hank.

He was focused. Professional.

It should have been easy, to not love him here. There was no weight upon his shoulders, but Connor felt a twist in his core all the same, the artificial muscles in his chest pulling tight. A feeling that belonged wholly to him.

“Well, that’s as good a confirmation as any,” said Hank. “Can’t say I expected this shit. Will it make our jobs easier or harder, do you think?”

“Harder, given the lack of any physical evidence at the scene.”

Hank glanced at him and smirked, grim as it was. “Good thing you like a challenge.”

“I can always count on you to find the silver lining, Lieutenant,” Connor replied flatly. He should have chided him, but the words did not come.

Hank snorted and looked back to the tablet. “Dead before the fire?”

“Yes, the autopsy report showed signs of strangulation. Several of his cervical vertebrae were damaged, nearly crushed.”

“Jesus. Can’t say I’m torn up about it, though.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, and took back the tablet. Hank offered no resistance.

“What?” Hank asked. “Based on his recent history, the dude was an asshole. He had it coming.”

Parsing the humor in Hank’s tone was a simple task for Connor’s systems. It was in poor taste, even if Connor agreed.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

 _“‘Shouldn’t’_ has never been much of a deterrent for me, you know that. You may not like it, but I’m not going to hold back on a guy that could have killed you.” Hank frowned, and added, “Killed us both.”

Connor looked down to the tablet, and cycled through it manually. There was something in Hank’s words that sent a nebulous feeling throughout his body, both warm and cold, both thrilling and draining. It was grossly unnecessary. Connor focused on his analytics and forced it away. Dying had felt easier than loving Hank ever had, and now. Now.

Connor did not want to think about it. He wanted to forget, again, in the way only humans could.

“Fine,” Connor said. He continued to sift through information he had absorbed minutes ago, and considered.

“No way _that_ pissed you off, Connor. Seriously?”

“It didn’t.”

“You always get short with me when you’re having a snit.”

He wasn’t mad. Annoyed, maybe, at most. Connor simply wanted to forget. It was not something he could explain to Hank, not something he could blindside him with. Connor thought of what he might say, and preconstructed how Hank might react. Anger. Grief. It would be better for the both of them to remain silent. Connor swallowed, a superfluous and human reflex, and bottled up what he could.

He had done so before, months ago. Connor should have thought better of it, but what choice did he have? Things would be different, now. He would hold it in, and not break.

“I’m not having a snit,” Connor said. “I’m thinking.”

“‘Thinking’ never takes you this long,” Hank teased. “You okay? Should I be worried?”

Connor had thought his weakness for Hank would not follow him into the station, but a sudden buoyancy within his chest told him otherwise. He did not want to smile, but it came upon him with such abruptness that he could not help himself. It was too late, to keep Hank from seeing, but Connor hid his nose and mouth with the tablet all the same.

“I have a lot to think about,” Connor said into the tablet. His happiness stung as sharply as his desire to rid himself of it.

“Oh yeah?” Hank smiled, too. “Anything you need me to do?”

“Yes. Go wait in the car.”

 

-

 

Analyzing the missing android reports by date over the past nine months was simple affair, but compiling and analyzing maps of said incidents from each month since took Connor an agonizing five minutes. Hank’s patience became a tenuous thing when he was left on his own, and luckily Connor was able to make good enough time to keep him in a good mood.

Their destination was an android junkyard in southwest Detroit. There were three such locations in Detroit, all of which had fallen into disuse. It was illegal to dump any sort of trash within them (thought that never stopped the most tenacious of humans), and they had all been gated off as well as the city could manage. Getting access on an impromptu visit turned out to be quite easy for them, however, which was anything but reassuring.

Hank grunted as he stepped around a collection of torsos. “You seriously wanted to come to this hellhole?”

“I did.” Connor sifted through a pile of assorted limbs - checking their model numbers, the dates of their manufacturing, how long they might’ve been abandoned. It was dirty work, the junkyard caked in mud from yesterday’s rain.

“And what exactly are you hoping to find?”

“Parts matching those of the androids that have been abducted,” Connor replied. “The ones we know for sure that were taken, that is.”

Hank let out a long breath. “Well that sounds like a fucking longshot,” he said. “Not to sound like an asshole or anything, but most of these androids weren’t exactly… unique. How the hell are you going to be able to tell?”

“I’m able to estimate how long an item has been exposed to the elements. Roughly.” Connor picked up an arm, inspected its port, and tossed it gently back into the pile. “I’m also looking to see if they’ve been tampered with.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Hank sounded unsure, at best. “Seems like a hassle to chuck a corpse in here, what with all the fences. And the security.”

“Why? We got in easily enough. And anyone with a pair of wire cutters could take care of the fence.”

“Sure, if you want to dump _trash._ But dead androids? Given how cautious these people are, you’d think they’d want something a bit less conspicuous.”

Connor glanced at Hank, who resolutely kept his gaze away from the truly grotesque. “It seems like the perfect place to me. Like hiding a tree in the forest.”

“Poetic.”

Connor ignored him. “Besides, not even androids come to these places, and most humans aren’t willing to risk jail time for burglary.”

“Any valuable parts here?”

“Some. There are many parts here CyberLife has yet to resume production of. They might be sitting on a surplus now, but prices could rise.” Connor leaned down to pull at a torso that clung to a tangle of limbs. “That being said, most don’t know enough about android physiology to know what’s actually valuable.”

With some effort, Connor cracked the torso open. It split cleanly from the seams on its sides. There was nothing of note within, and so he returned it to the pile.

“...Are you sure you should be doing shit like this?”

Connor straightened up, and stopped what he was doing. “What do you mean?”

Hank motioned to the pile at Connor’s feet. He frowned, brow heavy with distress. “Just rooting around with this shit, like it’s fucking garbage? Jesus, Connor. Come on. Have a little respect.”

It was so very like Hank, to be concerned with the remains of long-dead androids. There was certainly something endearing in it, for him to care so earnestly, but the wires in Connor’s gut pinched with something unpleasant. Something he did not want to acknowledge.

Connor regarded Hank coolly, and walked over to another pile.

“I have a job to do, Lieutenant,” he said. “I can’t afford to be sentimental.”

Hank did not say anything, perhaps cowed into silence, as Connor had intended. He did not look to check on Hank, and continued his search. Time grew long, an overcast sky bearing down on the already darkened junkyard. The drone of a distant highway was a constant companion.

“So,” Hank said after a sizeable silence. “Don’t really think I’m going to be much of use here.”

Connor turned to him. Hank was not wrong - with only one functioning arm and a lack of relevant android know-how, he was patently useless to Connor. He did not look at Connor, instead focusing his attention on an arm that he prodded with his foot, apprehension painted across his features.

“I’m sorry,” said Connor. “This was very spur of the moment. You can wait in the car if you’d like.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I don’t know. There’s still three corners I haven’t checked. It could be a few hours, at most.”

“Yeah, fuck that. I’ll stick around, so long as I’m not in your way.”

“You’re not.”

“Are you seriously going to check every part in this damn place?”

“No. Just the ones towards the surface.”

Hank nodded, and looked up to the sky. Rain seemed an inevitability, despite the weather forecast. “And what if you don’t find anything?”

“Then I’ll have to check the other two locations within the city,” Connor said. He paused, and stared down the port of a leg. It had belonged to a CX100 model, matching the one that had been kidnapped a month past, but the amount of grime that coated the limb spoke of several months longer.

“Although,” Connor continued, “if I don’t find anything here, I don’t think I’ll find anything elsewhere.”

“What makes you say that?”

Connor returned the leg to the ground. “This junkyard is closest to where the disappearances first began, and where the highest concentration of known abductions have occurred. If their bodies were being disposed of discreetly, it would be here.”

Hank made a noise in the back of his throat, and Connor turned to face him. He was close - when had he gotten so close? Connor wavered, and took a small step back.

“You’re assuming they’re being killed at all,” Hank said.  “And that if they are, they’re being tossed here.”

“I know that.”

Hank let out a long breath. “Christ, Connor. This really is a longshot.”

His mouth twisted into a half-smirk. Connor looked at Hank closely, scanned him, watched the shadow cast by his brow and the low light reflected in his eyes. It was an expression his systems could not place concretely, but Connor felt it all the same. It was patronizing. Doubting.

“I’m well aware,” Connor said sharply. “It’s not completely implausible, however.”

“No,” Hank agreed. “It’s not, but… What, was this the first thing that popped into your head back at the station?”

“It wasn’t the only thing.” Connor could feel the defensiveness in his tone. “It was the most reasonable approach, of many.”

“I’d hate to see the rest of them.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“Well no, but--”

“Then don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not-- Jesus.” Hank closed his eyes, and ran a palm over his face in exasperation. His thumb left a trail of dirt on his cheek. “I just wish you would have talked it over with me first instead of hijacking my fucking car.”

“I figured you would have objected, had I done so.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“So you see my point.”

His words had more bite to them than Connor intended, a rawness that belied the state he had been in for the past two months. A state Hank had since grown used to.

Hank lowered his hand from his face. There was no understanding in his eyes, only suspicion, yet Connor felt exposed all the same. “You’re really fired up over this, huh?”

Of course he was.

Not even two weeks had passed, and Connor could already feel his facade chipping away, his resolve faltering. His memories plagued him even where he thought they would not follow, a love that no longer belonged to him sneaking its way inside and infecting his programming.

Throwing himself into his job had felt like a sure solution, which had brought them here; but beneath Hank’s scrutiny Connor could tell it would not last. Even now, his other self sought to press inside as Hank stood close. The space inside Connor’s body seemed to shrink. The wall of code that rejected Hank, rejected his old self, rejected what Connor had done to himself - cracked and buckled beneath the burden of his insecurity.

He was sinking, and quickly.

“Of course,” Connor said. “Considering everything that’s happened, I figured you would be too.”

Connor did not require sleep. Perhaps he could work 24 hours, now that their case had hit a dead end - though Hank would never allow that. He could leave, find a place of his own-- but Hank. It might wound him deeply, and though Connor was not bound to him beyond the workplace, the thought of it made made his body tight, as if preparing for malfunction.

A fissure, a breach. The two selves within his body grew closer, entangled code running cold in his veins.

“I am,” Hank said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go crazy grasping at straws.”

Hank looked at him - really looked at him. The inquiry in his gaze had a near-physical charge to it. Connor lowered his eyes, and looked at Hank’s shoulder instead. Raindrops darkened his shirt as it began to drizzle.

Connor’s fervor, borne from a desire to push away what he now knew, ebbed away. He did not want Hank to realize how different he had become. He turned his focus inwards, towards his own weakness. There were few things Connor could declare he truly hated, but this was one them. Such a useless, helpless feeling.

“So what do you suggest we do, then?” Connor asked. “Or do you think we should sit back, and wait for something to happen?”

Accusation rang clear in his tone. Hank raised his brow at the sound of it, but did not react otherwise.

“As much as it sucks, yeah. Sometimes that’s all you really can do.”

Though his social programming mustered several responses to Hank, Connor chose to pursue none of them, and remained silent. The rain grew stronger, the sound of it echoing around them as it fell upon plastic and metal.

Hank continued. “The van’s out, and the only potential lead we had from that night turned up dead. We can do more canvassing and shit, but unless someone we know is involved just shows up on our doorstep, we’re kind of fucked.”

Hank’s words pulled at something within Connor, a thread, a hazy line of code that lead to a recent memory. His blood pooling against concrete. Red reflections therein. A name mentioned, carelessly.

“There is… something,” Connor said, as he considered. It was a longshot in its own way, and he was sure Hank would say no.

“Oh yeah?”

Connor looked at him, and tempered his expression to neutrality as best he could. Hank’s hair had grown wet and clung to the sides of his face, yet his bearing still made the wires in Connor’s chest singe with heated shocks. It was impossible to fight. It was all Connor could do, to keep it from showing in his eyes.

“I’ve a favor to ask of you, Lieutenant.”

“Sure, shoot.”

“I’d like to speak with Nancy Flanagan.”

“You _what?”_

 

    **Aug 30th, 2039**

 

“You can’t tell by looking, but we do get the news out here. Heard something about Hank getting roughed up something fierce. Real shame.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Where is the bastard, anyway?”

“Waiting in the car. I wanted to speak with you alone.”

Nancy scoffed. Mucus caught in her throat, and she hacked it up with a well-aimed spit that soaked into the dirt by Connor’s shoes. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“And he thought I’d have anything to say to you?” She grinned, crooked, showing off her few remaining teeth.

“I wouldn’t know,” Connor said. “He must have had some faith in me, since he agreed to wait.”

“You got any cash for me?”

“No.”

Nancy whistled and leaned backwards in her recliner. She folded her arms, the bright yellow of her cardigan made even more garish by the backdrop of her pink trailer.

“Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Connor glanced upwards. It was difficult to see the sky past the thick boughs of the surrounding trees, but the dark clouds above were hard to miss, the charge in the atmosphere speaking to a coming rain. Hank enjoyed such weather, but it made him impatient.

“You know,” Connor began. He looked back to Nancy. “Hank finds some use in you, but I can’t see it. If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll have you arrested.”

Nancy laughed. “On what grounds?”

Connor stepped closer, his heel digging into the soft earth where Nancy had spat. “I can tell you’re not sober,” he said. Indeed, her pupils were all but pinpricks, her heart rate heightened and irregular. “And I know it’s not alcohol. I don’t really care what it is, but I’m sure I’ll find more of it in your trailer. Among other things.”

“Lord, it thinks it can threaten me.” Nancy continued to smile. She pawed at the armrest of her chair, her hands visibly slick with sweat. “Not without a warrant. You’ve got no right.”

“I’ve never let that stop me.”

At that, Nancy sneered. “Because you’re a godless, soulless abomination.”

“That’s true, I don’t possess a human sense of morality after all,” Connor said evenly.

Nancy muttered something under her breath, and continued to frown. It was difficult to believe Hank had ever seen anything in her, but Connor pushed it from his mind. He took an experimental step towards her trailer.

“Fine,” Nancy choked out. She sucked in a sharp breath, and rubbed at her nose. “Two questions, then you can leave. And if you show up here again, so help me God.”

“Fair enough.” Connor reached up to adjust his tie. That had gone easier than he expected, but a sliver of annoyance still permeated his processors and made his jaw tight with disgust. “About that man you spoke of with Lieutenant Anderson - Timmy Burns. You’ve been speaking with him, haven’t you?”

“I speak with plenty of people. What’s it to you?”

“You told him Lieutenant Anderson was looking for him.” Connor paused. His pump regulator pulled tight in his chest. “And you knew he was in contact with the people we were looking for.”

Nancy clicked her tongue. “Why should that matter?” she asked through a chuckle. “I’m not beholden to Hank’s priorities.”

The thought that no one would miss this human, were she to die, shot through Connor’s mind in a single, quick pulse. The image of Hank’s bloodied head and unmoving form would not leave him; a constant reminder that made his blood run fast and his temperature rise. There was no guarantee that that night could have been avoided, but there was a chance that it might have, if only they had known, if only Nancy had kept silent.

Hank did not know. Connor had yet to tell him. Better to do it later, when Nancy was out of reach. Or, perhaps not. If his reaction tended towards anger, Connor would do little to stop him.

“Tell me where I can find him.”

 

-

 

Hank waited patiently by the car, leaning against the passenger's side door, staring up at the clouds. He had not been waiting very long, but long enough to test his usual amount of patience. However, none of the telltale signs of such were on his face, and he looked to Connor with an open mixture of curiosity and concern.

“How’d it go?” Hank asked as he straightened up.

“About as well as I expected,” Connor answered.

“Did she tell you anything?”

“A little.”

Hank approached him, and Connor stopped as he did so. His expression deepened, confusion rolling off of him in waves.

“A little,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Connor said. Hank stood closer than was necessary, but his posture was stiff. Unusual. Unsure. “She was difficult, but I managed to get what I wanted. At least, somewhat.”

“Oh. Do you need me to talk to her, or anything?”

“No,” said Connor. Hank’s uncertainty was palpable. It was unwarranted, and so Connor chanced a smile, stiff as it was, in attempt at reassurance. “I don’t think she’ll be of any more use.”

That seemed to do the trick - Hank snorted, and smiled as well. He reached to Connor in a familiar manner, a prelude to a simple touch, perhaps on his shoulder-- but it did not come. Hank stopped himself, his hand halting just short of Connor, his fingers curling into a fist before returning to his side. It was as if he had made a mistake. Connor could see it in his face, a flicker of regret, of indecision.

There was no cause for it, none that Connor could see, but there was no erasing that moment. Something twisted against Connor’s spine and bloomed into his abdomen. Frustration. Relief. Something like dread, but different from the sort he had felt before. Connor took a step backwards, out of reach.

“So.” Hank cleared his throat, and watched Connor move to the driver’s side door. “You ever gonna tell me what you two talked about?”

Connor hesitated. He reached for door, and pulled it open. “I’ll tell you on the way back.”

 

    **Sep 2nd, 2039**

 

“Just because my taste receptors aren’t as refined as a human’s, that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of understanding.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what it means.”

“The acidity of the tomato sauce should be more than enough, and the sweetness of the pineapple is already at odds with the cheese. Not to mention the texture--”

“Connor, Jesus. It’s great when I’m drunk. Really… soaks up the booze, or whatever. What more do you want me to say?”

“Do you enjoy it when you’re sober?”

Hank smirked as he thumbed through his record collection. It was teasing, lighthearted. Connor could not help but be swept up by it. Taken in.

“I don’t know, Connor,” Hank said. “Thanks to you, I haven’t gotten to try that yet.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. He stood close, watching him. “You’ve never had pineapple pizza while sober?”

“Uh.” Hank licked his lips as he considered. “...I mean, it’s telling enough that I can’t think of the last time I did.”

“You must have, at least once.”

“Yeah, sure, probably. It’s not like I can’t remember what it tastes like from when I was drunk, though.”

“Yes, but alcohol could alter how your body reacts to the taste.”

“You know, there’s a difference between being intoxicated and blackout fucking drunk.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t get _that_ bad every time I drink. Let alone when I drink _and_ eat pineapple pizza.”

“No,” Connor agreed. “But you do get heavily intoxicated far more than the average adult.”

Hank chuckled, and reached up to give Connor’s shoulder a light nudge. He had shed his arm sling earlier that day, and though the sudden increased movement pained his shoulder, it did little to stop him.

“Asshole,” Hank said, but there was little weight behind the insult, his smile clinging close to his voice.

It was pleasant, to see Hank so cheered. The information regarding Timmy Burns, that Connor had withheld from him, had angered him greatly, but Hank recovered from it far faster than Connor would have imagined. Timmy was not found at his listed address, and so waiting for him to be picked up was all they could do. Yet despite that uncertainty, Hank’s sour mood lasted only two days - the removal of his arm sling had helped, and by that evening his spirits had returned to normal.

So normal, Connor might have thought they had returned to May. To May, or April, when Connor felt as close as he ever had, and Hank had not buckled beneath his despondency. Nostalgia seeped into the air around them, a bittersweet sensation, a hurt that tried to heal, but could never be fully mended.

“You shouldn’t insult me for being honest,” Connor chided.

“Maybe I’m insulting you for all your shit talking on something you know nothing about.”

“Which part? The alcohol or the pizza?”

“Both,” said Hank. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

“You know I can’t eat, Hank.”

“Can’t you just chew it?”

“I could, but my taste sensors are more for identification, rather than pleasure. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Damn. That’s a shame.”

There was a layer of sarcasm in Hank’s voice, subtle as it was. Connor might have missed it, were Hank not looking at him, his attitude moulded clearly in his brow. Hank had possessed some intent in going through his music, but it was now quite lost, his focus solely on Connor.

Connor’s chest tightened as he became hyper-aware of every port in his body, every wire, every vein.

“I suppose,” Connor said, sounding weaker than he intended.

“What would happen if you tried to eat, anyway?”

“It depends on how much. More than likely I’d have to be professionally cleaned in order to prevent any complications.”

“But it wouldn’t hurt you.”

“No.”

Hank tilted his head back and forth. “...Well, if you’re ever feeling adventurous…” Perhaps feeling somewhat adventurous himself, Hank winked at him.

Teasing, always teasing. However used to it he was, Connor could not help the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, reserved, but genuine. He fought back a laugh and was successful, but it remained in his throat and colored his voice in a deep shade of joy.

“I’ve been in for major repairs recently. I don’t think CyberLife would appreciate my coming back so soon.” Connor paused. “Or is this some kind of testing for revenge, since I made you eat brussel sprouts for dinner?”

“Dammit. Foiled again.” Hank clicked his tongue and looked at Connor for a moment longer. Neither of their smiles waned, but a shadow - one familiar to Connor now - passed through Hank’s eyes, sapping them of their brightness, of their mirth. Hank looked down, returning his attention to his records. “Did you reorganize my records recently?”

“Yes, I was unsatisfied with sorting only by the artist’s last name, so I re-sorted them by genre first, then artist last name.”

“Jesus.” Hank sighed. “You ever hear the term ‘organized mess?’”

“I’ve heard it,” said Connor, “but I don’t agree with the concept.”

“The hell does that mean, ‘I don’t _agree_ with the concept.’ It’s a thing that exists, ‘agreeing’ has nothing to do with it. Do you also not _agree_ with pizza?”

“You _know_ I don’t agree with pizza.”

“Shit, yeah. Guess I really set myself up for that one, huh.”

“Yes, you did,” Connor said.

Something in the air between them shifted. Hank grunted, and did not grace Connor with a proper response. Connor scanned Hank’s profile. A shadow remained in his eyes and his heart rate had risen, yet no color showed in his face. It was a sudden shift, jarring, enough that Connor could feel it too, his own good humor slipping away in the face of Hank’s sudden reticence.

As Hank thumbed at one of his albums, struggling to pull the record forth, Connor reached for it and pried it gently from Hank’s grasp. It was, perhaps, stupid of him to do so - more than anything, Connor had hoped to provoke a reaction from Hank, but as their hands brushed in a slow, undeliberate touch, Connor felt strongly his own response.

He should have expected it, the way his thirium pump fluctuated irregularly, the extraneous feedback behind his eyes, the looming sense of dread as his other self gripped tight at the space between them.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” Connor said, teasing, hoping to defuse whatever had disrupted Hank so. Hoping to push down his own imbalance. “I didn’t mean to.”

Hank released the record, and pulled away. He stepped around Connor, and headed into the kitchen. “Nah,” he said. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Connor called after him, “Do you want me to play this record?”

“Nope, changed my mind.”

Frowning, Connor returned it to its place on the shelf, and followed after Hank. He stopped at the threshold of the kitchen and watched as Hank reached for a glass, and his whiskey. Connor pulled at the hem of his shirt. It had belonged to Hank, and though it had been some time since the man had worn it, it still carried with it a distinct smell that Connor could attribute to only him.

It was difficult, to feel Hank so closely in that way, while watching him grow distant. It was all too familiar. Connor had grown used to his apathy towards Hank, but his willingness to leave him to wallow in his depression no longer had such a hold on him, not when his memories of late May burned so brightly in his mind’s eye. It was all too similar. Hank withdrew, and ran, and Connor--

Connor always let him.

“You’ve been awfully distant recently,” said Connor. “Is something wrong?”

The words stuttered and glitched over his processors, and though his throat tightened with the stress of it, they were able to fall freely from his lips. His other self crept closer.

“Uh, really?” Hank glanced over his shoulder, but it did not last. “I haven’t noticed.”

Connor took a step closer. His love did not feel as close as he would have expected. It was numb, made obscure by his stress, by the skein of negative emotions that welled up within him, threatening to burst.

“You have,” said Connor. “Has the case been bothering you?”

Hank took a long drink of whiskey then poured himself more. He shook his head. He did not turn to face Connor, as he spoke.

“No, not particularly.”

Something within Connor snapped.

It was a feeling so sharp that Connor was certain it was physical; a sudden blast that left his innards feeling spacious, his processors slick and unburdened. Every measure he had taken to control his emotions disappeared, as if they had never been there. A glut of frustration flowed into him. The memories of Hank’s emotional constraint - his unwillingness, his insincerity, his childish fear - burned into the facsimile of Connor’s retinas, all of them, played on loop.

Every retreat.

Every evasion.

Every rejection.

Always, always, always he was running away.

“Is it because I was in love with you?”

Hank went very still. A silence like death settled in the room. Connor’s audio processors increased their gain as they struggled to hear anything; a high-pitched drone resounding in Connor’s head as he listened to the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of Hank’s breathing, the pace of his processors parsing Hank’s heartbeat, hammering against his chest.

Slowly, Hank turned to face him. His face had gone very pale, his lips parted as he took in uneven, shallow breaths. That Hank was deeply disturbed was clear enough to Connor, even as his processes slowed against the surge of his negativity. Fear, guilt, uncertainty. It was all there, written on Hank’s face.

“You-- what?”

“Do you need me to repeat myself?”

The weakness that crippled Connor in the face of Hank’s discomfort was all but lost. Connor’s concern, affection, love - all of it drowned beneath his frustration. His anger. A searing hot bloat in his code that came as suddenly as Hank’s own foul mood. It seemed only fair. Connor was tired to the very core of him.

Hank wet his lips. His words sounded dry.

“No. No. I just-- don’t know what to say.”

“I was hoping you could answer my question.”

Despite his obvious unease, Hank managed to maintain eye contact. It seemed difficult for him, in the way his posture seemed to shrink beneath Connor’s own schooled expression.

“But you,” Hank began. He took a breath. “I thought you--”

“Thought I what?”

Hank motioned aimlessly with his left hand. Though he tried to mask it, Connor could see the way his hand shook, even as he gripped tight his right wrist.

“I thought you… did something.” An exhale, sharp and short. “All of a sudden, it was as if. It was as if you were brand new. Like we just met.”

As Connor expected, Hank had noticed the way in which Connor changed. He had simply opted to keep silent. Ire flooded into Connor’s circuitry, turning his mind towards irrationality, his LED circling yellow.

“Yes, I removed most of my positive associations towards you, along with any memories regarding my realizing my affections.”

“Why?”

Hank’s voice was still breathless, but a measure of confidence returned to it as he regained his composure. The anguish in his question was enough to pull at Connor’s chest, but it was not enough to move him.

“Because my attachment to you seemed to cause you a great deal of grief,” Connor said evenly. “You became quite despondent, so much so that it affected your work ethic, and drinking habits. I was concerned for your health.”

Hank made a noise that sounded a mix between a laugh and a sob. “So it was for my sake.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit. You--” Hank cut his words short, and dragged a palm over his face. He glanced down at the kitchen floor, then back to Connor, his tone softening considerably. “But you… You remember now?”

Connor pursed his lips. His other self reached for him in a plea to answer honestly, to be open, but Connor brushed it aside.

“In a way.”

Hank’s expression fell. His voice cracked. A grief so heavy it weighed on them both.

“How did you-- Why the fuck did you ever think I would want you to do something like that?”

Through the negativity that churned within him, Connor felt a brief pull, and urging. How simple it would be, to go to Hank. To reach out to him, to apologize, to accept his in turn. To comfort, to be comforted. How simple it would be.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

All the air in Hank’s lungs seemed to rush out at once. A chill settled in the atmosphere, thicker than the one before it. Connor did not blink as he watched disbelief color Hank’s face.

“...What?” Hank asked, after he allowed the question to settle in. There was no strength in his voice, nor in his posture.

“You could barely even speak to me,” Connor said. His words cut through the air like a frozen knife. Simplicity was beyond them. “All you did was drink and sleep in your room. After you adjusted to the change, things seemed to be much easier for you.”

“Easier.”

“That’s right.”

Disbelief twisted into hurt, and was followed by anger. It was so like him. Connor would have expected no less.

“You think it was fucking _easy_ for me? Sure, I was having a rough time of it before, but when you-- when you came back all fucked up like that, I--”

Once more, he ran a hand over his face.

The anger that swelled within Connor became easier to maintain, when Hank mirrored it so. Yet something in Connor wavered in the face of Hank’s emotion. That he had been hurt deeply by what Connor had done was always a consideration, but hearing it from Hank directly was another thing entirely. A portion of Connor’s frustration turned inward instead, and pierced him with uncertainty. His focus faltered.

“So you knew,” said Connor, as coldly as he could manage. He could feel what he longed to throw away creeping towards him. Slowly, slowly.

“Knew what?” Hank spat the question, his indignation overtaking him in no time at all.

“That I was in love with you.”

Hank did not say anything. He did not need to. He looked away, the answer clear on his face.

A long silence came between them. The anger between them quieted but did not dissipate. It settled upon them like embers, warm and willing to burn.

“When did you realize?” Connor asked.

“What does that matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Really? Or does it only matter to you ‘in a way?’”

“Just answer the question.”

Hank hesitated. “I don’t know. May? June? Somewhere around there.”

It was in line with what Connor suspected, but the admission still came as a surprise.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to say, Connor?” Hank looked back to him.

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“Anything would have sufficed. Better than closing yourself off in a childish, drunken fit.”

“Because you were so fucking honest.”

“I tried telling you,” said Connor. “You must have realized. But you stopped me. Do you remember?”

Again, Hank’s silence became his acquiescence.

“Why did you stop me?” Connor asked.

Hank took in a sharp breath. “Because at the time I--” His tone was bitter. “I didn’t want to hear it.”

Months later, Hank’s reason for silencing Connor had not changed, but that fact did little to abate the sting of his renewed admittance.

“No, of course not.”

“Jesus Christ, Connor. That doesn’t mean I wanted you to go and-- go and fucking reset yourself!”

The whorl of Connor’s emotions took hold of him. Anger and misery. A great desire to retreat and forget once more and longing, longing, longing for something better.

“Which bothered you more, Hank?” The code that brought the words to his lips felt sharp against his wires. The acidity of his blood leaked into his voice. “My feelings for you, or what I did to myself?”

A question for Hank. A question for himself.

Hank glared at him. Connor watched his shoulders rise and fall with each laboured breath.

“Fuck you.”

“If you wanted me to stay as I was, you should have said something--”

“Don’t you-- Don’t you fucking _dare_ put this on me!” Hank’s voice erupted into a hoarse shout. He took a step forward, his pointed finger jabbing at Connor in implied accusation. “You’re the one who did that shit to yourself, not me!”

“I wouldn’t have, if you had shown an ounce of maturity. All you ever do is run away.”

Hank laughed, dark and caustic. “Oh, bullshit.” He stepped forward, again. He was close. Connor could feel his heat, his ire. “I have my problems but don’t act as if you’re some fucking innocent. All _you_ do is bottle your shit up, and then take the most drastic action at the fucking worst possible time.”

Connor glared up at him, and Hank looked back. Dread crept into Connor’s veins. His intention in confronting Hank was now a hazy, nebulous thing. Did he have any intention, to begin with? He couldn’t remember. Not when the two of them were like this, standing on the precipice of something that was not unknown - but something very real.

Hank continued, his voice rife with emotion. “And after the fallout, you fucking stand here and lecture me for not being able to read your shitty robot mind.”

It would have been easier, if Hank had struck him instead.

“At least I confront my problems,” Connor said. “Instead of hiding and hoping they solve themselves, or vanish completely.” He paused. He inhaled, their breathing the only sound around them. “I might have a shitty robot brain, Hank, but you… You’d rather drink yourself to death than listen to a confession.”

Hank’s eyes were terribly blue, terribly bright. The anger Hank exuded was strong enough, but it could not hide the sadness in them, not entirely.

Connor spoke again, low, deliberate. “Better to be a machine, than a coward.”

Hank’s lips twisted in disgust, into a smirk devoid of levity.

“Fuck you, Connor.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“How about ‘go fuck yourself, Connor?’”

Neither of them moved, but a nervous energy fell over Hank, the muscles in his throat visibly tightening, his arms and shoulders going tense.

“Are you going to run away again?” Connor asked quietly.

“Maybe, if it’ll piss you off.”

“Always with the cowardice.” As soft as their voices were, they lacked any amount of warmth. “Always pushing others away, and wallowing in your own self-inflicted loneliness.”

Hank’s nostrils flared. He did not say anything. Connor continued.

“Always keeping me as close as you like, then shutting me out whenever you feel like it. Even if it hurts you.”

“And every fucking time you stand by and let it happen,” Hank said. “Just like you’re going to do now. Maybe it’ll even make you sad, if you’re capable of that.”

Connor wondered, for a brief moment, how different things might be if he were to fold, if he were to step forward and embrace Hank. He wondered what Hank might do, if he forced himself to cry, to sob into his hands as Hank stood before him. He wondered if the anger Hank felt, caused by Connor’s coldness, could be overcome by the affection that had not yet left them.

Connor preconstructed several scenarios, but the results were too varied, too inconclusive to be of any use. It was a pointless, fleeting fantasy, to even consider such a thing. The dam of negativity continued to turn on him, building fast a staggering pain within his processors.

“It will,” Connor admitted. “But it will hurt you far worse.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe we both deserve it.”

Had he said with any other tone of voice, it might’ve been humorous; but now it fell between them with such grave profession that it carried with it its own injury.

“Why did you insist on pushing me away?” Connor asked. His words did not waver, keeping with them his constant frigidity, yet the fondness he had pushed away crept up on him. It reminded him, begging for entry into a body that once bore it as an absolute. “All I had wanted was to make you happy.”

Hank did not look convinced. A sliver of the enmity in his expression ebbed away, but he remained stern. “Oh yeah? Is that all you wanted?”

The question stopped and stuttered as it traveled through Connor’s processors. His lips parted as something intangible coiled about his neck. His body knew the answer, but his mind doubted its veracity.

“Yes.”

It was difficult to read Hank’s expression, so mired in a multitude of emotions as it was. He seemed close, yet far, all at once. Hank exhaled and looked right through Connor, past the facade of his cruelty, beyond the injury that lay between them.

“And how about now?” Hank asked slowly. “Is that still what you want?”

Connor opened his mouth to speak. No answer came.

The sensation around his neck grew tighter. _Yes,_ it begged him to say. _Say yes._ How easy it would be, to heed that urging, but his systems ground to a halt, plagued by uncertainty. Did he? Didn’t he? The time Connor had spent away from his love, however short, was enough to fill him with doubt. Fill him with fear.

A simple question that yearned for a simple answer. Yet even still, simplicity was beyond them both.

Connor closed his mouth, and did not breathe.

Hank’s expression grew dark as Connor’s silence spoke for him. He swallowed thickly, adam’s apple struggling to move against his taut throat.

“I thought so,” Hank said. His anger drained from his voice, leaving only fatigue.

His eyes were so terribly blue. The hurt Connor warned him of did not take long to manifest.

Hank took one step back then stepped around Connor as he headed for the front door. Connor turned to watch him, and the answer he struggled to build died in his throat.

“Where are you going?”

Hank pulled on his sweatshirt, his shoes. “Out.”

Connor followed him, but maintained his distance. His frustration and anger sank into his abdomen and remained there, heavy, like a lead bar. His thirium pump strained against his chest and infused Connor’s systems with sadness and with hurt and it pained him, it pained him, it lacerated him as he stood and stood and watched, only watched.

It was all he could. He had not the courage to reach out to Hank, to touch him, to stop him with his own strength.

“Running away?” Connor asked, though he already knew the answer. His throat and chest compressed tightly, so much so that warnings appeared in his peripheral.

“Guess so,” Hank said. His voice was rough. He shoved his wallet and keys into his pocket. “Seems in line with your expectations, so you shouldn’t be surprised.”

Connor took another step forward. Hank would not look at him.

“Instead of you leaving,” Connor began. How weak he sounded. His coldness from earlier was all but gone. “You should just cast me out. If I’m such a burden to you.”

Hank did not say anything for a long while. He stood still by the door, one hand resting on the handle. He stared at the far wall, and stared, and stared, then finally he looked at Connor, meeting his eyes.

It was a sadness Connor could recognize well. It was the same look Hank had carried for the past two months, when he looked at Connor, when it was just the two of them. An expression that ached with bliss at what still remained before him, but wept in the face of realization - at what he lost, at what Connor threw away. A longing for a time neither of them could return to.

A tremor ran through Connor’s face. Something stung behind his eyes.

His body was his own, yet not at all, and him and himself wanted to reach out, to ask Hank to stay in the only way he still could and apologize and--

“You’re free to leave whenever you’d like, Connor.”

Hank pulled the door open, and left.

The impossible weight of Connor’s resentment burst and bloomed into sorrow. His body begged him to move forward, to stop him, but there was no ignoring the futility in it. Were he still angry, Connor might’ve laughed at how quick they were to fall into place, each as the other had threatened - but only misery, deep and heated, remained close enough for him to feel. Misery, and self-loathing.

It was his fault. Connor’s own emotions, kept unchecked. Left uncontrolled. Spent until there was nothing left in him. It was his fault.

And now--

And now--

The sound of Hank’s car starting cut through him. Out. Out. Out. Tires screeched against pavement as the car pulled from the driveway. Connor did not move from where he stood. The sound of the engine grew distant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͠° ͟ʖ ͡°)
> 
>  
> 
> (this isn't the last chapter btw)


	7. Sep 2 2039 - Sep 5 2039

 

 

 

    **Sep 2nd, 2039**

 

It took twenty minutes to sink in.

Connor did not move. He remained where Hank left him, jaw tight, staring at the front door. His LED circled yellow as he processed, and processed, and processed. Connor replayed their conversation - their argument - over and over.

As he did so, Connor’s anger drained away entirely, leaving only a weighty emptiness behind. A voluminous black hole that pulled all his thoughts inwards in a repetitious review as his mind stuttered and gasped for relief. The memory turned red behind his eyes as he highlighted his every mistake and each word undeserved.

It was his fault. It was his fault.

That he had let his emotions take such hold of him was detestable. Shame unfurled from his spine and encased his chassis in a heat that burned him both within and without. There was something else as well - regret? Guilt? They were neither of them new to Connor but their intensity warped his vision as warnings of instability swam into his sight. They pressed upon him and pressed, and he was drowning in them and Hank, Hank was--

Hank was--

“...Hank?”

Connor broke the reverie of his review and spoke into the silence, but only silence answered.

Of course, Hank was gone. Hank had left. Connor knew this, yet the realization of where his lack of control had landed them came at a slow creep, and as it devoured him fully Connor felt as if the ground had opened up beneath him. His LED turned an aggressive red, his jaw working as words flowed forth from his system, but halted, as they would be heard by no one.

Fear washed over Connor and arrested his mind.

Connor reached for contact and connected to Hank’s phone. A long, long second passed before the sound of Hank’s ringtone cut into the quiet, the device humming from the couch where it had fallen, wedged between two cushions.

A stress that already threatened to tear him at the seams jolted beneath his skin, gathering in a concentrated pinch between his eyes. Connor’s ears rang as he struggled to focus. Where had Hank gone? What would he do? His car was too old for Connor to track, and without his cell phone, it was impossible to know where he went. Hank’s usual haunts seemed the likely destinations, but there was always a chance-- always a chance he would--

Connor turned on his heel and headed to the garage. Fear slackened his control over his thoughts, stress wresting control of his body. Connor checked beneath the power breaker, between the walls where he had hidden Hank’s revolver. It was still there. It was still there. Connor went to Hank’s room and looked in his closet, where he kept his service pistol - and there it remained. It should have been a relief, but Connor did not feel any less burdened for it.

Sumo, who had fallen asleep in Hank’s room looked up at him. It should have been a relief. It should have been a relief.

There was no concrete logic in Connor’s fear, but the urge to search for Hank overtook him. It was possible to predict the routes Hank could take, where he might go, to find him and stop him, stop him and apologize.

Yet if Connor failed to do so, if Hank returned sooner than he--

_You’re free to leave whenever you’d like, Connor._

The thought of Hank returning to an empty home was almost too much for him to bear. The pain Connor had inflicted had already been palpable enough but to worsen it, to worsen it, to worsen it--

All at once, every component in his body felt heavy, far too heavy as a deluge of emotion, raw and unchecked, poured into every crevice of his body. There was no piece of him left untouched and it _hurt_ , it hurt in a way that Connor did not want to call human but it must have been close. Deviants turning their weapons on themselves, choosing death over such anguish - it did not seem unreasonable any longer. In a way it was almost enviable, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

Connor wandered into the hall. He was heavy, heavy with it. A pain that did not abate as his vision blurred and his body numbed. A feeling that belonged to him, and to his other. To them both. His chassis shuddered, a churning behind his eyes. Biocomponents to bring him closer to humanity, yet left untouched, no matter how he yearned for it. They shuddered from their lack of use, uncalibrated, unfiltered. It felt a terrible thing. It felt wasteful. Seen by no one, there Connor remained, in a useless display.

 

    **Sep 3rd, 2039**

 

Hank did not return until the next morning, when the sun sat fully in the sky. The sound of his car pulling haphazardly into the driveway was unmistakable. Connor stood stock still in the kitchen. He wanted to be seen, but despite the ache of his concern, he did not particularly want to see Hank. It was a nebulous conflict, different from the clear-cut indecision that plagued him since the return of his former self.

The sound of Hank’s key colliding against the door shot through the house. It happened again, and once more, Hank struggling to fit the key in the lock. Connor hesitated, and thought to go and open it for him, but no sooner did the idea pass through his mind than Hank managed to open the door and push his way inside.

He looked dreadful. His face was worn, eyes red and bloodshot.

And Connor-- Connor looked the same, even though he felt he should not.

Hank glanced at him, for only a second, before looking down to his shoes as he toiled to remove them, his balance noticeably compromised.

Connor opened his mouth to speak, and took in a shallow breath. He did not need it, in order to be heard, but his voice sounded feeble all the same.

“...Hank.”

Hank did not say anything. Connor did not expect him to.

“Where did you go?”

It was a superfluous question. One that did not need answering. It did not matter where Hank had gone, only that he had gone at all.

Hank hung his coat by the door and set down his keys. Sumo came to greet him but was not afforded any attention. Hank moved towards the hall, but Connor stepped to the right, and stopped him. The stench of alcohol rolled off of him in waves. No test was needed to tell how inebriated he was, to see the danger he had put himself in.

“You’re drunk,” said Connor. The air between them became thick with the smell of Hank’s breath. Slowly, slowly Hank lifted his gaze to look Connor in the eye. “You shouldn’t have been driving. What if something had happened?”

Once more, Hank did not say anything, but he did not have to. So what if something had happened? Perhaps Hank had been hoping for just that.

His silence was of little help to Connor. Hank continued to look at him, his lips pulling into a twist of discomfort. That he did not want to be held there was clear enough; yet Connor stood firm, as well as he could manage in the face of their mutual awkwardness. He searched for something to say, a place to start. An apology. A plea. A truth he had once known.

“I--”

“Just fucking leave me be.” Hank’s tone felt like acid, smattering against Connor’s skin in a caustic interruption. His voice was ragged, spread thin over a throat laden with liquor. “I’m tired.”

Hank brushed past Connor, their shoulders colliding as Connor did nothing to stop him. Connor could stop him, he could have if he truly wanted to - but had he not done enough damage already? It was all Connor could do to call out to him as Hank stumbled into the bathroom and out of sight.

“Hank.”

“Gonna piss,” Hank said, just loud enough to hear, as he did exactly that. Hank’s nonchalance fell flat beneath the strain of their situation, aided only by his drunken state. “Then sleep.”

Connor waited. He expected this. It hurt no less. This was his fault.

He knew Hank was not blameless, but the chasm between them ruined his impartiality, his stress fraying the stability and logic of his programming. It left him weak, and unsure. He hated it. It made him angry. With Hank, with himself.

Hank returned to the hall, long and unsteady strides carrying him to his bedroom door in one mere moment. He pushed the door open but Connor - quick and unconscious, in an action that was not truly his, not entirely - reached out and stopped him, his hand touching Hank’s elbow. Gently. Pleading.

“Hank, please.”

Hank went still. He did not flinch away from the touch, as Connor anticipated; but before Hank’s wounded stoicism, it seemed such a tiny and inconsequential gesture. It was enough to stop him, yes, but it did not make Hank look, did not disturb the dark cloud that hung heavy over his shoulders.

Slowly, Hank let out a breath. No longer did he try to sound firm and detached, weariness seeping into his voice in a dry whisper.

“Stop,” he said. His gaze remained forward, steadfast. He licked his lips and Connor felt him shudder from where they touched. “Please.”

So raw was Hank’s request that Connor could do nothing but obey. He withdrew his hand, and returned it to his side. Hank hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, just a glance, but could not bring himself to meet Connor’s eyes. He stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. The lock turned, and the house settled into quiet once more.

Connor did not move for a very long time.

‘Hank, please.’

Please what?

His goal had been to keep him where Connor could-- Where Connor could do what, exactly? His words had been as unconscious as his hand on Hank’s arm, and as Connor searched for them now, he could not find them. What would he say? His apologies, of course, and then what?

His desires. The desires he once knew. Truths shared between two selves, however few.

He loved Hank no longer - he was certain, he was sure of it - but despite Connor’s anger and frustration, he could not bring himself to leave. The ache of it settled in. Connor remained.

 

    **Sep 4th, 2039**

 

“Your lunch, Lieutenant.”

Connor held out the bag for Hank to take. A peace offering, as it were. It was his favorite: turkey and cheese with mayonnaise, the former of which Connor had managed to wean Hank off of for the sake of his health. A memory now closer but no more fond for it. It felt a little pathetic, to try and appease him in this way, but the stress of Hank’s reticence mounted at a breakneck pace, now that the truth lay so bare between them.

Hank did not look at Connor, and did not move to take the bag from him. When Connor remained, Hank let out a frustrated noise and jabbed his thumb towards the far end of his desk and said, “leave it there.”

There would be no arguing with Hank, while they were at work. Connor acquiesced and set the bag down - which Hank continued to ignore - and returned to his seat.

It was not an unfamiliar situation. In a way, it was almost humorous how neatly and easily they had fallen into such a state, a repeat of months ago. That was not to say it was the same - no, if anything it was far worse, the sting of repudiation. Lines upon lines of jumbled code that lead nowhere, intertwining with resentment and sadness both, pulling at him to cut out what pained him, or to repair what he could.

The sensible thing to do would be to leave; yet Connor’s decision to stay remained firm, despite the irrationality of it, which surprised even him. A surprise, but not a disturbance. It was a choice that belonged wholly to him.

He did not quite understand why.

After a few minutes of pounding away at his terminal, Hank reached for his lunch. He looked at the sandwich with great difficulty, as if it might speak harshly to him, and wound him as deeply as Connor could.

He took a tentative bite. Chewed. His brow furrowed, and then relaxed.

He took another bite, and Connor could not help watching him. It did not take long for Hank to notice. He scowled.

“What?”

Connor lowered his eyes. He touched a hand to his terminal but did not connect to it, his hand remaining human. The rest of him yearned to follow.

“Nothing.”

Hank returned his attention to his lunch. The distortion in his expression did not fade, the sourness of his mood permeating the air around him like a dense miasma. It was palpable enough that Connor could feel it pushing him away.

 

-

 

“Shall we talk?”

The drive home proved to be a far greater strain than their morning commute. There was a terrible tension in their silence, one that broke Connor in a matter of minutes.

Hank’s nostrils flared. The music he had set to play in the car was quite loud, but not loud enough that Connor could not be heard.

Still, Hank pretended not to hear. His grip tightened on the steering wheel and his throat tightened as he remained quiet.

“Hank,” Connor pressed, gently, as gently as he could manage. His patience grew thin as his stress swelled.

“Let’s not,” Hank said in a breathless rasp. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes forward.

Connor paused. It was frustrating, to suffer such disregard, but Connor kept it at bay. He would not let his emotions, so disjointed and ugly, get the better of him again. He would not let his other self take control.

“I’m not going to give up, you know,” said Connor.

Hank snorted. “Not like you did before?”

A deep-seated weariness drowned the venom in Hank’s tone, but that did not rob his words of their sting. It was a blunt blow to an already bleeding wound. The truth of it made it all the worse.

“No,” Connor said. “Not like that. Not even if you wanted me to.”

Perhaps not even if Connor wanted to. He had been grieving and afraid, then. He was now, perhaps even more so, yet the disconnect between himself and his other allowed him some measure of relief. It was all the same, and so terribly different.

Hank sucked in a sharp breath. It stuttered in his throat as his chest contracted with the suddenness of it.

_“Connor.”_

Connor’s name fell upon him with a weight it had never held before. It broke over Hank’s voice, dry and tight, a fissure in the center of the word filled with such feeling that it poured into Connor, like rain seeping into earth. A name splintered over a hard and hidden mourning. Connor committed the sound of it to memory, replayed it again and again as it ran red into his blood and inhabited every process that made up his person.

He glanced at Hank. His face was tense, lips pressed together. It looked as if he might cry.

Connor pretended not to notice.

“What is it?”

The music moved from one track to another. It was very quiet, in that small moment. Connor’s processors slowed as he waited for Hank’s reply, and the silence stretched in his mind for what felt like minutes.

Hank exhaled, slowly.

“Nothing,” he said. His voice was thick with the runoff that bled from Connor’s name. “It’s nothing.”

How quick they were, to dismiss each other. That nothing lay between them was a thought that Connor could not entertain. What it was, however, he did not know. It festered and grew and though he could feel it, he could not comprehend it.

Connor allowed Hank’s retreat, allowed the morass to blister with uncertainty. He watched the scenery go by, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the evening.

 

    **Sep 5th, 2039**

 

Hank made his own coffee in the morning. He was early to rise, far earlier than his usual, the sky painted in a shade of cool grey. Connor came out of stasis after Hank, the sound of him moving about enough to rouse him. The air in the house was chilly, the heat not yet turned on, the radiators still left empty.

It was rare to find Hank awake within the time Connor usually occupied, and it felt a strange thing, but not unpleasant. Hank sat at the kitchen table, centered in the quiet of the room. He did not look as if he had slept. The room loomed large behind him, a cavern of quietude that made Hank seem so very small. It was as if a massive wave threatened to crash over him, to crush him, a memory of cruelty lingering therein that neither of them could escape.

Slowly, Connor came to stand at the threshold. Hank did not look up but Connor’s presence did not go unnoticed. Hank’s shoulders tensed as he stared into his coffee.

Connor spoke quietly, but his voice pierced the air like a bullet.

“We can’t keep doing this, Hank.”

Hank did not speak, nor did he look up. Connor’s words welled into the wave that towered over them, heightening its crest.

As the wave loomed, so too did the skein of incertitude between them, growing larger and larger still. Connor was certain he could feel it in his code, though his systems reported nothing of the sort. Tasks and processors burning with questions bloomed inside of him, filling him to bursting.

“You knew something had been wrong with me, didn’t you?”

It was a question that did not need an answer. So clearly now could he remember Hank’s face on that morning, the sudden shift of realization into melancholy. The withdrawal that followed, a self-imposed solitude.

Hank remained silent. He pulled at the sleeve of his faded sweatshirt that seemed too large for him. An implicit acquiescence lay in his quietness, one that held the same gravity as a spoken admission. More questions grew in Connor’s mind, hitching his processors as they pushed into his peripheral.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Or do anything?”

“What the hell could I have said? Or done, for that matter?” Hank’s voice was dense and deep. He continued to stare into his coffee.

Connor hesitated. “Something,” he said. “Anything.”

For all of his questions, he had few answers. It was selfish of him, perhaps, to look for them in Hank, to continue searching for something he could not grasp in a man he did not fully understand.

Hank sighed, and looked at Connor from beneath his heavy brow. “Why would I? It seemed to me like something you wanted for yourself. Who am I to try and interfere with your decisions?”

Who _was_ Hank, to do such a thing? Who was Hank, to Connor? A partner, a friend. Someone to admire, someone to love. He and himself knew separate answers and so his body could not arrive at a complete conclusion.

“You had no way of knowing that,” Connor said quietly.

“What, that it was your choice?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not an idiot,” said Hank. He tried to smile but it was weak, so weak. “You think I was gonna try and convince myself it was some accident? I knew how I had been acting and how it-- how it fucked with you. I just-- shit.”

Hank swallowed what sounded like a strangled laugh and dropped his forehead into his hand, thumb and middle finger pressing into his temples. His honesty felt undeserved. It settled into the cold and drifted against Connor’s chassis.

“...Did something change?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“The morning before I left, you seemed different.” The memory of it brought forth the majority of his questions; the subtleties in Hank’s behavior, how open he was as he still managed to hide. “You were going to tell me something.”

“Nothing changed,” Hank said, a little to quickly, a little too firm.

Connor watched Hank’s heart rate rise, watched his face grow hot beneath his cold hand. He paused.

“Then what was it you were going to tell me?”

Hank licked his lips and his fingers dug deeper into his temples. “I told you before,” he said. “...The oven was acting up. It wasn’t anything serious.”

“You’re lying.”

Hank let out a long breath, and said nothing after. Connor could see the tension in his posture and the hypertension beneath his skin, but Hank’s obscured eyes could not speak of the silence between them; an anxious acknowledgement that had yet to take shape.

Time grew long. Their fight had left Connor’s patience thinner than before.

“Hank--”

“--Stop.” Hank dropped his hand, his heavy palm falling onto the table. “Just fucking leave it alone. Even if I am lying, what good is the truth to you now? It wouldn’t change anything.”

There was nothing Connor could say to that. How true it was, how terribly true. It was too late now, to go back on what Connor had done, what Hank failed to do, what they said to each other. Perhaps it had been too late the moment Connor fell into a deep and aching love, one that hollowed out a great hole and trapped them both in an ever-downwards plunge.

The rigidity of Hank’s expression softened as Connor held his silence. He spoke again, the force of his voice stolen away, leaving only a shell of weariness.

“What do you want from me, Connor?”

This was a question Connor had asked himself many times over. No answer felt truly complete within him, not since his other self took vigil upon his shoulders; but of the different responses Connor’s mind found to this question, only one appeared consistently.

“I want,” Connor started, “things to go back to the way they were. When you were easy with me. When my being around was enough to make you happy, at least somewhat.”

Hank’s shoulder twitched as his hands curled into fists. Visible tension traveled from his wrists, up his arms and neck and into his face. It was difficult to read his expression.

“Is that what you wanted?” Hank spoke softly, but it was not enough to prevent his voice from cracking. “When you-- you know.”

“Yes, that was the idea.”

“Did you really think that was going to work?”

“...I believe it did, for a time.”

“Don’t say that shit to me,” Hank hissed. “You have no idea. You have no _fucking_ idea what that was like.”

“How could I,” Connor spat right back, “when you never said anything?”

“What the fuck could I have said to you? You were a god damn stranger.”

Though he felt no joy, Connor felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. “We’re going in circles.”

Hank ran a palm over his face and returned his attention to his coffee, which had begun to grow cold. He did not respond, and Connor did not expect him to. Light filtered in through the kitchen window as the sun rose in full.

“You told me I was free to leave,” Connor said after a pregnant pause. He curbed the frustration from his voice, letting it drift light into the air, but Hank’s shoulders tensed all the same. “Is that what you’d like me to do?”

Once more, Hank said nothing.

“I’ll go,” said Connor, “if you want me to.”

“Do you _want_ to leave?” Hank raised his chin to meet Connor’s eyes.

“No. But I would, for your sake.”

“Christ,” Hank scoffed. “Everything for my sake, huh? You sure know how to make a guy feel like shit.”

Connor frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“I thought you were done trying to make me happy, now that you’ve gotten yourself all fixed up. Or did you change your mind already? Can’t say I’d be surprised, given how god damned drastic you are.”

“That isn’t fair, Hank.”

“I’ll tell you what isn’t fucking _fair._ Feeling like rock bottom _shit_ for two months because of you, then having you tell me it’s my god damn fault the second you snap out of it. As if I didn’t already fucking know that!”

Hank’s expression burned with the same heat as his words.

Connor did not care enough about Hank during the past two months to look beyond his carefree demeanor; but as Connor did so now, every memory of Hank’s thin veneer crumbled and gave way to a desperate despair. A man clinging to the ghost of what had once been stability, providing himself both reprieve and torment.

Every memory of a smile, every touch, every embrace now smacked of apology, and it pulled at Connor - downwards, inwards. The bridge between himself and his other felt smaller, crumbling to dust as both sides of him shuddered with emotion.

It leaked from him, poured from him, staining his words with a glut of sentiment he thought he lost.

“If I had known it would affect you so greatly,” Connor said, and how _weak_ he sounded. “...I never would have done it.”

The words came from outside of him, spoken before he could confirm their veracity; but once that weakness dripped from his lips in full, Connor could taste the truth in them. The memory of his final regret weighed heavy upon his tongue, but he did not give it voice. It pained him, to recall it, to accept it in silence, and Hank--

“Oh, _Jesus.”_

Hank lurched forward as he spoke, a strangled sound dying in his throat as he buried his face in his hands. His fingers pulled tight at his hairline and his shoulders rose with tension. A shuddering exhale, dry lips pulled between teeth. Connor watched him closely. The strain of his muscle, the heat that escaped him and dissipated into the cold of the room.

Quietly, Connor stepped forward. There was no guarantee Hank would want him near, notifications that spoke of disgust and aversion framing his hunched-over form; yet the chance of worsening Hank’s mood simply by _trying_ was low, and so Connor pulled out a chair and sat beside him.

Hank made no immediate show of a reaction. Connor folded his hands on the table and waited. Eventually, Hank spoke, face still hidden beneath his palms.

“What gave you the idea that I wouldn’t be affected? Did you think I wouldn’t fucking notice?”

“I didn’t think--”

Hank interrupted him with a bark of bitter laughter. “Shit, no kidding.”

Connor pursed his lips and allowed Hank’s jab to pass them by.

“Of course I knew you would notice,” said Connor. “I just didn’t think it would be so severe, for you. How could I have known?”

Hank dropped his hands from his face, revealing an expression weary and worn, eyes red with feeling unspent. His palms lay flat against the table. He looked at Connor, his gaze even and sure, despite the precariousness between them.

“Did I really seem like I thought so little of you?”

“I don’t know what you think of me.” Connor paused, and amended, “What you thought of me.”

Hank looked away.

A single question unfurled in Connor’s mind, the insistency of the code that bore it threading its way to every end of his body. It burned red with urgency, a dangerous query that tightened every human imitation within him. The question begged for an answer, one Connor yearned to hear, and yet, not at all. A fear, a fear, a loathsome fear bubbled up into his throat and poured into his mouth but he could not keep himself from asking.

The fear that spilled into the question stained his words blue, the quiet in his voice shattering against stagnant air, a crash of a wave long since crested.

“What do you think of me, Hank?”

Hank exhaled as the question settled, and yes, Connor wanted to hear - but to what end? Though he now felt closer to his past self, the differences between the two tore at him, rending him in opposite directions wherein lay equally ambiguous goals. To apologize, to blame, to see nothing after.

“You ask me that,” Hank responded, “but if I asked you the same, could you answer?”

Even now, the hesitation Connor had shown nights ago still seemed to weigh upon Hank’s mind. No single answer came to him. Honesty was all he had.

“No,” said Connor. “I couldn’t.”

Hank turned back to him, a fatigued sort of understanding written across his features. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Would it change your answer?”

He paused. “No,” Hank said through a long sigh, his candor coming with apparent difficulty. “But I feel like it should.”

“Then, won’t you answer me?”

Hank glanced downwards, to the table, raising a hand to pull at his beard and hide his mouth. “I can’t--” he started. “I’m not fucking doing this right now, Connor.”

“If not now, then when?”

“...Fuck if I know.”

“I told you before. I’m not going to give up.”

Hank smiled but it did not show in his eyes. “Is there anything to give up on?”

Connor tried to smile, too. “We’re both still here.”

“Jesus.” Hank snorted. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t really get _why.”_

“Neither do I.”

 _Because I remember how I loved you,_ Connor wanted to say, but the reminder of what was lost between them would surely pain Hank. No longer, he had told himself. The certainty from days ago drifted away by the hour. His other self lingered close and at times within him in a distant, foggy control. Lines of code glitched through his processors. Questions with answers, and ones without.

“Thought you were supposed to know everything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Humor fell flat between them; yet the attempt left something in its wake, a nervous energy, a tense excitement. Connor’s social systems strained to recognize it.

Hank took in a deep breath.

“...Things can’t go back to the way they were.”

“I know,” said Connor.

After another pause, Hank spoke with what sounded like great deliberation. “Knowing that,” he started, “what would you want from me then?”

The truth he had chosen to forget did not seem any lesser for its distance. To be close, to be desired, to be useful, to be human. How had they arrived at this point?

“I want to know your thoughts,” said Connor, sincerity coating his voice. “I want to know what you’re feeling. If I don’t know, how can I...”

He trailed off. The end of a thought he once was certain of branched off into many.

“How can you what?” Hank pressed.

Connor opened his mouth to speak. A magnetic wave pulsed through the room just before Hank’s phone began to ring. It vibrated harshly against the table. With visible vexation, Hank reached for it. He scowled at it, hesitated, and answered with a clumsy swipe of his thumb.

“What the fuck do you want, Jeffrey?”

 

-

 

Timothy Burns was a man whose bad habits showed clearly on his face. His skin was thin and loose, smattered with scars old and new. His mouth was only half-inhabited by teeth and the hair on his face was more a suggestion of a beard than anything else. His eyes were bloodshot and distracted, and he fidgeted in his seat as Hank sat across from him in the interrogation room.

“I’ve got lots of friends, Hank,” he explained, his words escaping between his front teeth in a harsh whistle. “Just repeating what I heard, you know? I didn’t think-- didn’t think anyone would come after you.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

Timmy rambled with little prompting. Hank did not say much now, nor did he say much on the way to the station. Connor had opted not to press him.

“I’m serious.” Timmy stuttered, wringing his hands together, picking at his cuticles. “You know I don’t like violence.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hank conceded. “Don’t worry about it, Timmy. Water under the bridge and all that.”

“Thanks, Hank.

Connor watched Hank closely from where he stood in the observation room. Hank smiled, or tried to, a tight-lipped strain of an expression that showed more disgust than friendliness. Timmy did not seem to notice.

“You been working with what’s-his-face?” Hank snapped his fingers. “The guy who burned off his eyebrows?”

“Devon?”

“Right, that guy.”

“No. No. No, he moved to Orlando, like three years ago.”

“Gotcha,” Hank said. “He used to work for CyberLife, right?”

“Uh, think so.”

“I hear you and him used to steal park maintenance androids and resell ‘em. Are you still doing that?”

“What? No. No, I-- I don’t do that anymore. It’s illegal now.”

Hank snorted. “It was illegal back then, too. For different reasons.”

“Yeah, sure. Well I don’t.”

“You know anyone who still does?”

There was a telling pause as Timmy shifted in his seat. “I only hear talk,” he said sheepishly.

“What sort of talk?” Hank tapped his index finger against the table. There was intent in his posture and in his gaze, but his focus seemed split, as if an invisible distraction had perched itself upon Timmy’s shoulder.

“You know. Like the stuff you mentioned.” He reached up to scratch at his temple and picked at a scab near his hairline. “Bragging about androids they jumped and shit, how no one would miss the things. Never-- I never thought they were serious about it, though.”

“Nah, of course not,” Hank drawled. “You’re not a very serious guy. Why would you?”

“Fuck off, Hank.”

“Not like you’d give a shit, even if you knew they were serious.”

“Yeah, so what?”

Timmy sneered. Connor could see why Hank spoke so poorly of him.

“So,” Hank started. His brow was drawn tight with obvious irritation. He cleared his throat. “So, you tell me names, and where you met these people, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Bullshit. You told me that last time I was arrested.”

“That was only if you stopped buying three people’s worth of red ice every fucking week - which is why you’re here now, yeah? If you can’t uphold your end of the bargain, why should I uphold mine?”

Timmy frowned. “I was off it for a while,” he muttered. “I don’t believe you.”

“Look,” Hank said as he leaned forward and took in a sharp breath. “I’m retiring soon, so you have my guarantee. That good enough for you?”

Hank glanced to the one-way mirror; whether he meant to do so as assurance of a lie or confirmation of his announcement, Connor did not know. The thought of Hank’s retirement filled him with immediate and irrational distaste. Connor frowned to himself and reached into his pocket. A task that ran with less and less frequency. A coin, at home, forgotten.

“You serious?”

“Scout’s honor.”

Timmy took a moment to consider. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“I only really know one guy,” he said. “Dennis Cald-- Call-- Calloway. He hung out with some other guys but we never really talked. Think one of them was called Isaac? Isaiah? Something.”

Dennis Calloway - who had since been found dead. Hank did not appear surprised to hear his name.

“Something,” Hank repeated. “That’s helpful.”

“Dammit Hank, I’m telling you what I know.” Timmy curled his fingers into fists. His mouth smacked with an overabundance of saliva, making his speech unpleasant to listen to. Flecks of spittle flew onto the table.

“Where did you usually see these people?”

“Outside this old industrial lot, usually. Like in the parking lot.”

“Where?”

“It’s in Delray.” He sniffed. “Real quiet area. There’s a McDonald’s around the corner. I’d go there to eat after.”

“Uh huh.” Hank frowned. “You know anyone named Seth?”

Timmy hesitated and looked down at his hands. “Uh. I’ve heard the name. I think he’s…”

He trailed off. He scratched behind his right ear and beneath his left eye, the muscles in the left side of his face spasming to an uncomfortable degree and perhaps granting him a sudden moment of clarity.

“Actually,” Timmy began, “do you think I could talk to a lawyer first?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

-

 

It was evening by the time they returned home. Timothy Burns had proved as useful as Hank predicted, and the meager amount of information they gleaned from him compared little to the amount of time spent waiting for him and his lawyer to confer. Whether or not Hank was left in a worse mood than before was difficult to say. He said nothing of their deserted conversation.

Yet there was no challenge in their mutual silence, a tension devoid of their earlier anger. There was a tacit understanding that what remained unsaid was not forgotten. A bated breath upon the edge of a knife.

It was enough that Connor could sense it.

To reach out to it, to disturb it - that could come at its own pace. Slowly, gently.

“I’m going to take Sumo for a walk,” Connor announced. Hank, who lounged on the couch all by his lonesome, looked up. Connor glanced between Hank and Sumo as he stood by the door and hooked Sumo’s leash neatly into his collar. “Would you like to come with us?”

Hank leaned forward and rested his arms upon his knees. His expression was grave, and he took a while to answer.

“No,” he said. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and rub at his temples. He sighed, deeply, seeming to give Connor's invitation more consideration than it deserved. Hank stared at the floor and quietly added, “I'll go tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was--

Tomorrow was sooner than Connor would have expected.

Not that it was a promise of anything, no - it was still likely that Hank would remain moody and withdrawn, even defensive, and perhaps they might argue again. There was optimism in it, however, and despite how imprecise and fragile that optimism was it filled Connor with anticipation, his mind drumming up a myriad of what if's for a day that had yet to arrive.

“Alright,” Connor said. “We’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Hank nodded in response, keeping his gaze resolutely downwards. He clasped his palms together in front of him and his hair obscured his expression.

It was as much of an answer as any. Connor did not press him further and left with Sumo in tow.

A chill had taken to the air as the season began to turn. The last bit of sunlight lingered in the sky, the encroaching dark lulling the neighborhood into quiet inactivity. Few cars drove by and the park Connor took Sumo to every day sat empty. It had not been maintained for some time. Overgrown weeds reached to Sumo’s belly as he wandered about, his pace lethargic in his old age.

Connor had asked Hank to accompany them, but perhaps it was better that he didn’t. There was some manner of respite in the stillness about them, his systems running easily and unhindered by the mess of humanity that awaited him at home. Connor did not have to think about Hank - but he did, the calm granting him clarity, the distance drawing him close.

Hank, Hank and the changes in his disposition. The warmth of a week past. A hidden effort, hindered by his own self.

Connor tilted his head back. Cool air flowed into lungs made only for show.

“Alone again?”

Connor turned and looked to the east, to the source of the voice.

The person in question had approached very quietly. His sweatshirt was a plain white that caught every bit of light the dim street lamps had to give, the hood casting a shadow over his face. Connor could see him well enough, however - bright green eyes beneath a heavy brow, a smile that spoke of practice.

Connor tightened his grip on Sumo’s leash. He did not say anything.

“Routine,” the stranger began, “can be bad enough with humans. With androids, however… it’s…” He trailed off, his head tilting, a set of perfect teeth showing behind a lopsided grin. “Insidious. Don’t you think?”

Even with his hearing broken and bloodied, and his memory made haywire, it was a voice Connor could well recognize. His LED spun yellow.

“The human you live with usually comes with you, doesn’t he? I was hoping to find him here, but it appears he’s been absent the past few days.”

Connor clenched his jaw as he cursed himself. Stupid, he was stupid. He should have expected something like this, however much this brazen action conflicted with the caution of previous patterns. It was not something he should have ruled out.

Did he ever rule it out? No, perhaps not. No matter how much he had tried to force it from every task and system that governed his body, the past few weeks held him captive to one single subject, a constant repetition of Hank, Hank, Hank.

“What do you want?”

Connor kept his voice as neutral as he could and scanned the stranger. The rigid posture behind his insouciance, the careful moulding of his eyes and mouth, a current of energy and information beneath an aging frame. An older model. It was unexpected, but the surprise Connor might’ve felt was muted by the suddenness of his appearance.

“I was hoping you might be willing to come with me, for a little while.” He paused. He did not look away from Connor, his deep tone dripping thick with whimsy. “Of course, I’d have liked the set, but I’m willing to settle.”

“I didn’t think you had any interest in humans.”

“I don’t.”

He smiled. Connor paused.

“Seth, I take it.”

“That’s right.”

“If I refuse?”

Seth clicked his tongue. “I’d be sorry to hear it. I figured you’d be at least somewhat curious.”

Seth shifted his weight. Connor tracked his movements, watching him shrug his shoulders, his hands resting in the deep pockets of his sweatshirt. His right arm stuck out at an odd angle and Connor could see the profile of a pistol beneath the fabric. It was small, but not so much as to be non-threatening. Still, at a dead run, Connor would be able to reach Seth before he was shot dead. He preconstructed several attempts, watching the projection of his body stumble and reach with no regard to the bullets that would pierce it.

“Before you reach a decision, however…”

Seth withdrew his left hand from his pocket and held it before him, an image projected above his palm - a view of Hank’s house, from across the street. The image faltered sideways, then grew blurry as the focus was adjusted. It was live.

A rush of dread overcame Connor, a whorl of questions and assumptions and solutions pulsing in every piece of him. The fear blunted his focus, now that a once-vague threat extended beyond himself. Quietly, Connor dialed Hank’s phone.

“It’s more of a precaution than anything else, in case you refused,” Seth said quickly, as if it were some assurance. “Even if I let you go, I don’t think you’d be able to make it in time.”

Connor paused. Hank did not answer.

His fear grew. It was a familiar sensation, one Connor had felt nearly a year ago, in the basement of CyberLife Tower. It was stronger now than it was then, like a tight wire was being pulled from his center, threatening to snap.

“What do you want?” Connor asked again. A pathetic attempt at delay as his mind scrambled for a perfect solution. He tried Hank’s phone again, and there was still no answer.

“I already told you,” said Seth.

“Why not just kill us both?”

“I prefer discretion, when and where I can.”

“There’s nothing discreet about this.”

They waited as a car passed them by. Seth glanced at the image he still held upon his palm, then returned his hand to his side.

“Yet it’s been going rather well, wouldn’t you say? Better than a parking garage. There are no cameras here.”

Connor kept his eyes on Seth’s left hand. “Did you really think holding his life hostage would work?”

“No, but if it didn’t, I’d just kill you both.” Seth raised an eyebrow, his upper lip rising into a sneer. “Is it working?”

It had been easier to maintain a neutral demeanor when he had been a machine.

“I could just kill you.”

Seth laughed. It was a formulaic laugh, a routine found in most older models, a sound Connor had heard many times over.

“You could try,” Seth said, “and you might even manage it. But someone like you should know how quickly I can send a message to the two men sitting outside your home.”

Connor could reach Seth in just under five seconds - provided Seth didn’t shoot any vitals first. Yet it would take Seth less than one second to send a message, even with his older architecture. Then, from the time that message was received, to the two minutes it would take Connor to return home at a sprint--

There was a sliver of hope, but it was insignificant in the face of potential failure. Even if Seth’s threat was a bluff, which it could very well be, the risk was much too great. Connor thought of Hank, sitting alone, tired from work and injury and the things neither of them could say to each other. Hank was not helpless, no, but every percentage that spoke of harm made Connor’s systems seize up in fear, red seeping into his vision.

To lose him would be too much. The stress of imagining it was enough to suffocate Connor, to press down upon him as if his whole body would simply cease function.

He could not bear the thought of it.

“I have no reason to trust you,” Connor said. “You already threatened to kill us both. Why not do it?”

“I’m willing to leave a few loose ends if it makes things easier for me in the present.”

“He knows just as much as I do.”

“And? He’s a human, and past his prime. You are of far greater concern than he could ever hope to be.”

Connor curled his lip. “Then why not just kill me here?”

Seth hesitated. He tilted his head, his lips pressed tight into a curious smile. “Is that what you want?”

Connor said nothing, despite how easily the answer came to him. No, he did not. How cruel it would be, to inflict that upon Hank after he had already lost so much. Yet the choice between the two of them was an obvious one, one Connor did not have to think twice on.

Sumo, having exhausted the length of his leash and gone about his business, returned to stand by Connor’s side. He looked up at Connor expectantly, his tail wagging lazily, unable to sense any tension between two machines.

“Let me make this as clear as I can,” Seth said. Carefully, he withdrew the gun from his pocket and held it above his hip. “You come with me, and I’ll leave the human. You can run, resist, try and kill me - what have you. The human will die, and maybe you will too.” He paused, and smiled. “You seem so well-made. Shouldn’t this be easy?”

It would be easy, if Connor threw caution to the wind. If he discarded Seth’s threats as deceit. But the chance, the _chance_ \--

Connor glanced to the other side of the street as a pedestrian passed them by. Neither him nor Seth were paid any mind, Seth’s pistol hidden by his body. Sumo pawed at the ground and whined, eager to move on.

“What about the dog?” Connor asked as he looked back to Seth.

It was a sad attempt at a delay. Connor considered alerting the police to their location, a call for aid, but that too brought with it its own risks. No, Seth could not know.

“What about it?”

“I can’t just leave him here.”

Seth looked Connor in the eye and carefully aimed his gun downwards, to where Sumo stood before Connor’s legs. Fear that had been blunted by the acceptance of his own situation lashed within him, a sudden cold that gripped tight the components within his throat.

“Don’t,” Connor choked out.

“Leave him,” said Seth, his voice slick with impatience. “Or don’t.”

Seth’s expression skewered into distaste, an uncontrolled twitch in the right side of his face distorting his features as he glanced to his left, to his right. His finger tightened over the trigger as the shell of his hand creaked with the strain of his grip.

His fear was nearly enough to root Connor to the ground, to make him crave the relief of a bullet as the stress of his systems pinched between his eyes. It was all Connor could do to embrace it, to make it his own, and from there, perhaps--

Connor took the chance, and sent a nondescript request for aid, coordinates stored within. He released Sumo’s leash.

“I’ll go with you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life just grips you by the nuts and doesn't stop punching. I'm sorry, everyone. Happy Holidays.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/the_fantastic_m) and [Tumblr](https://thefantasticm.tumblr.com/) for questions and updates.


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